Disparity: A Time Twist Variation on North and South
by JuliaDaniels
Summary: Margaret is a modern day graduate student at Oxford, studying the class structure of the Industrial Revolution. Given an unbelievable opportunity to go back in time to finish her paper, she gladly accepts, even though she's skeptical. Meeting John Thornton was not something she'd planned on.
1. Chapter 1

_"__so tired of the straight line_

_and everywhere you turn_

_there's vultures and thieves at your back_

_storm keeps on twisting_

_keep on building the lies _

_that you make up for all you lack…"_

_~~ Sarah McLaughlan, Angel~~_

New Year's Day 1851

Milton, England

Marlborough Mills

John Thornton was bored.

That was the bald truth of the matter. Despite all he had achieved in his life, the struggles, the failures and the successes, his soul was not fulfilled. If asked what he lacked, he wouldn't have a ready answer. Indeed, as he stood looking out the window of his elegant home at Marlborough Mills, the largest and most productive cotton mill in Milton, he saw prosperity at a level that most could only dream of. Yet he felt incomplete, empty.

Nothing had come easy to John, not since his father's passing nearly twenty years earlier.

He'd struggled, fought for every ounce of his success. A good, honest man of integrity, he cared for his mother and his sister as best he could. He provided livelihoods for the hundreds of people who worked at his mill. He'd done well by everyone else's standards, but inside himself, on a very private and personal level, he knew there was something missing in his life.

A sigh escaped from deep within himself. He turned away from the ice encased window to move the short distance to where a fire blazed brightly in the gilded fireplace, cutting the chill in the air. Turned on hours earlier, the gaslights cast a warm glow about the spacious drawing room. He had earned everything within his sight. Every piece of ornate, overpriced furniture, every decorative do-dad came from his efforts alone. He'd come up from the absolute lowest level a person could be, in debt up to his eyeballs, only to come out ahead, to thrive when other, weaker spirited people would have failed.

His business, the manufacture and selling of the finest cotton in England, was thriving. Because of its success, the name of John Thornton was known near and far. He carried a certain degree of arrogance for his success, he'd earned the right. He was proud of who he was, what he'd achieved. He was no longer the penniless draper's assistant, forced to eat watered down porridge, but perhaps in his head, he would always be that boy working hard to rise himself above it all.

Despite being on top of the world, the monotony, the sheer tediousness of living in Milton, the place he was born and raised, had become unrewarding. He didn't have low spirits. He wasn't unhappy, but he was well… lonely.

Something was missing.

He had an idea what that something might be, but not how he could find it. Not really an _it_ but a _who_. John admitted, reluctantly, it might finally be time to find a wife. Perhaps it would have been logical twelve years ago already when he first became the Master of Marlborough Mills, but a wife hadn't been a high priority then. Building a cotton empire was all he'd had on his mind back then. In truth, it still was.

He took a sip of brandy and turned when his mother's voice called out to him.

"Come eat, John."

"Yes. I'll be right there." He nodded to her, where she stood, indomitable, at the door of the drawing room. After she nodded to him, she left, the clicking of her heels audible in her retreat.

At four and thirty, he still lived with this autocratic, domineering mother and his sister Fanny, who, at two and twenty, was not yet married. Well, in truth, they lived with him, as it was the easiest and most economical way to see to their comforts. So, in the last nineteen years of his life, not much had changed in his world, it was still just the three of them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the elaborate invitation resting on the small desk near the window. His mother had handed it to him earlier, when he'd come home from his day at the mill, and asked what he thought about attending the wedding of the daughter of George Hamper, one of the fellow mill owners.

Perhaps that's what triggered his melancholy that evening, the realization that Hamper's homely daughter had found a man to marry and yet he hadn't had success finding any woman he'd believed remotely acceptable to be his bride.

He hadn't taken time with the bother of courting a woman, much less considered marrying one. Not ever. What was it about a woman that would cause a man to make a life time commitment? He never understood, not really, how a man could cede control of any part of his world to a wife. His mother's guidance had been one thing. She was his _mother_, and since that awful day when his father was found dead, he'd allowed her to manage as much of his world as he could.

The day he became master at the mill, he promised her she would always have a home with him. What woman would wish to live with an overbearing mother such as his, even if she would be married to one of the most successful man in Milton?

With that thought, he gulped the contents of his glass and set it on one of his mother's ornate inlay tables. A wife. What did he need a wife for?

"John?" she snarled. "Now!"

"Coming, mother." He rolled his eyes and sighed.

There wasn't a woman in the world he was remotely interested in becoming attached to, but he believed it might be time to do so, however difficult it would be to change his lifestyle at his age.

_Can't teach an old dog new tricks._

Milton might be a rising economic power, thanks in large part to his own efforts, but available women of his class and station, with looks and brains were few and far between. The ones he'd met he found as empty-headed as his sister. The thought of spending the rest of his life with such a woman left him cold. A trip to London was out of the question. Despite his wealth and power, he was a working man. A working man who ran a mill, day in and day out.

That was his marriage. He was married to the Marlborough Mill.

Maybe it was time to have an affair?

February, 2014

Radcliffe Observatory Quarter

Oxford, England

"There is just something missing, Dr. Bell. I'm not feeling it. I've been working on this damn paper for a year and it's still not right."

Margaret Bryce slammed a thick manila folder containing months of agonizing research on the desk of her adviser, hoping against hope that the grey haired, bespectacled man might finally have an answer for her.

"What's missing?" J. Whitman Bell, Professor of History and her graduate adviser, an Oxford _don,_ calmly stared at her as he took a sip from his coffee cup. Margaret's rants never seemed to faze him.

She laughed. "If I knew, it wouldn't be missing! You bloody well know I'm writing about the effects of industrial revolution technology on the class structure in England… But, Dr. Bell, I'm not feeling the poverty. I'm not seeing or hearing the dying, starving children in my paper. I'm not getting deep enough and it's frustrating me."

"Maybe you need to step away for a few weeks?" he suggested with a slight shrug. "Take a breather? I could ask the department for an extension on your due date?"

She plopped down on the wooden rocker across from his enormous desk. "I don't know if time will matter much. I read the paper over and over again and, well… it's brilliant." She chuckled at her arrogance. "But there's something missing and I absolutely refuse to hand in a half-ass paper."

"Cheeky girl." He grinned at her, leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head.

"Well, truly it _is_ a fine paper… The facts are well researched and complete, but yet there is a human element I cannot quite grasp. When I write about that, _the true theme of the whole thing_, I fall flat." She shook her head in frustration. She'd worked her whole college career to get to this point and now, bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, she's choking.

"Don't beat yourself up, lass. It _is_ a fine paper, but I must agree with you, and if you intend to make a splash in the publishing world with it, you do need to polish that part up." He leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his desk. "We could always submit it as is, and fix what needs fixing at a later time, prior to its actual publication?"

Margaret leaned forward and rested her face in her hands, feeling like an absolute failure.

"My dear," he stood and walked around the desk and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Your degree is not in question, you understand you will be suitably prepared to defend your paper and research."

She nodded silently.

"Maggie, let me ask you a fantastical question. Promise to hear me out?"

She looked up, narrowing her eyes.

He leaned his hip against the front of his desk in front of where she sat, crossed his arms against his chest, and fixed his eyes on her. "If you were given an opportunity to go back in time, to explore, first hand, what life was like in the mid nineteenth century, would you accept it?"

She studied his face, expecting the usual goofy grin he wore when he joked about aliens and zombies. "Of course I would, what a ridiculous question!"

"Truly?" he asked with raised brows. He did smile then. "Do you think you might be prepared to function as a woman in the 1850's? If you were to arrive, out of the blue, in a northern industrial city of the 1850's, could you succeed in obtaining what you are lacking in your perspective for this dissertation?"

Margaret snorts at the idea. "You make it sound like this is an actual option." She rolled her eyes at him and laughed. "Yes, Dr. Bell, given the chance to go back in time one hundred and sixty years, I would gladly jump at the opportunity. I would immerse myself in the culture of the time, study the class differences and determine to the very best of my ability how the mills effected the growth of the middle class."

"Let's get to it, then." He rubbed his hands together, with a very odd gleam in his eye.

"You're crazier than I thought you were." She felt a certain nervousness creep into her stomach, freaking her out. He looked too serious. "Fine," she said. "If I could go back, I would go to 1851 so I might also witness the Great Exhibition in London."

"But you are not studying or writing about London," he reminded her. "You're writing about an industrial town and technology's influence on the society and economy of the time."

"And?"

"And you'll need to go to that sort of area." He waved absently in the air.

"Okay." She laughed, playing along with the insanity. "Bring it, Dr. Bell. Industrial town, with access to London, 1851."

"As you wish," he said with a nod.

She snorts again. "That's it? Don't I need a passport? When I left Chicago for Oxford I needed one."

"Funny girl," he said. "I'll miss you while you're gone." He patted the top of her head like a dog.

_He's so full of it._ No one can cross the time continuum. She knows he's got a curious past, but she thinks what the heck, she just as well play along with the man. He'd been good to her during her three years at Oxford, even if he was obviously insane.

Raised by single mom that drank herself into multiple stints in rehab, and who was now completely out of contact, Margaret had been on her own since eighteen. She'd earned a full ride to Oxford as a Rhodes Scholar after graduating from the University of Chicago. Now she was twenty-four, almost done with her graduate degree in history. It was only this paper that stood in her way of completing her degree.

"Is tomorrow soon enough for you?" he asked, still studying her intently.

"I suppose," she sighed dramatically. "So let's say I get there, and hate it. What if I can't make it back to 2014? What if I get stuck there forever?"

"That won't happen." He sounded so certain.

"Okay." She leaned back in the rocker. "I don't want to be a mill girl. I want to be a scholar there too, someone who can research what's going on, study people, and write about my findings."

"Do you want to be married?"

"Married?" He caught her attention with that suggestion. "What?"

"I mean, shall I find you someone to be married to?" He smiled. "Even if it's in name only?"

She ponders that weird idea. Talk about an arranged marriage! "No." She shook her head, thinking it would be wrong on so many levels. Sex with a stranger in Victorian England? Might be kind of kinky, or just… weird. They didn't really wear underwear.

She notices that he's begun to jot all this down in the journal he kept on the corner of his desk.

Then she notices the clock on the wall. "Oh hell, I have to go. I'm scheduled to work at the Turf in less than fifteen minutes."

"Before you go, let me be certain I have this right. Industrial northern England town, 1851. You don't want to be married, but you want to be able to write and research?" He lifted his eyebrows mimicking his question.

"Yes, that sounds perfect." She laughed at the sincerity in his suggestion, and then slung her backpack over her right shoulder.

"Very well. Just wait a moment." He walked behind his desk and slid open one of the bottom drawers, extracting a burlap pouch which he tossed to her. "Here's some coins you'll need. Now, when you get to Milton, that's where you'll be going by the way, look up a Dr. _Adam_ Bell. He lives at the Blackmore Inn when he's in Milton. He'll get you where you need to be, and get all the information for you to find success. Leave your flat mate a note that you're going on an extended trip. Keep that," he pointed to the pouch, "with you until you reach Milton. Sleep with it if you must, just don't have it off your person."

She laughed and then shoved the pouch into the front pocket of her jeans, while shaking her head. "Right then. Milton, Blackmore Inn, Dr. Adam Bell. Got it!" She rolled her eyes. "Well, I must thank you for removing some stress." She reached out and shook his hand as she always did when they parted ways. "I'll see you tomorrow, Dr. Bell."

After she closed the door of his office, she slipped in her ear buds, cranked Justin Timberlake's latest song on her _Iphone _and rushed down the familiar streets of Oxford to get to her part-time job at the Turf Tavern. It's a Thursday, so she expects it will be particularly rowdy.

Working in a bar might be the oddest choice for the daughter of an alcoholic, yet Maggie never felt the urge or impulse to drink much. Or smoke, or spread her legs for any hot guy. Well, truth be told, any guy… She was so different from her mother. She would admit to herself that she had passable looks, with cute dimples when she smiled, and a well-proportioned body. She earned excellent tips because of her friendly, flirty personality, which she spent on textbooks and food. In 1850 she'd be called a bluestocking, in 2014, a nerdy (but cute) bookworm.

Hours later, after the bulk of the crowd had dispersed, her boss, a beefy man of some sixty years with a red beard and thick cockney accent, offered her the chance to leave early. He knows she's on a deadline for her paper.

"Could you clear me from the schedule for a bit?" she asked quietly, thinking herself insane.

"Yeah." He paused in his wiping down of the bar. "How long?"

"I'm not sure." She scrunched up her nose as she slung her backpack over her shoulder. "Can I get back to you in a couple of days?"

"Are you quitting?" he asked.

"I don't think so." She laughed. She liked her boss, despite his gruff demeanor. "I just have to finish the research, and I'm not sure..." she paused, "where it might take me."

"Well, you let me know when you decide." He went back to cleaning. "I'll hold your place for a week or so. You're a scrappy little worker, I'd hate to lose you."

She thanked him for the compliment, promised to be in touch as soon as she could, and then set off for home. Maggie doesn't believe for a second that she would magically be transported to 1850, but something compelled her to make plans. Maybe it was the weird gleam in Dr. Bell's eye? That was just pain creepy.

She found her flat empty as usual, her roommate choosing to sleep another night at Tim's house- some wealthy dork whose family made millions in banking. Bethany affectionately called him her _friend with benefits_. Maggie thinks there's more to it than she's willing to admit, probably because he's a nerd and Bethany is a gorgeous blonde haired, blue eyed, big-breasted, bombshell. But, that was just Maggie's opinion, and really they seemed quite well suited to each other.

Maggie threw her keys on the kitchen table and dropped onto a mismatched chair. Glancing across the mess at the table, she emitted a deep sigh. Strewn across the entire surface were piles of research, books, and manuals that were supposed to help her complete the dissertation. They had certainly helped, but just as she'd explained to Dr. Bell, there was something simply missing from her paper, and until she figured out how to incorporate the feelings, the very basic emotions of the period, the paper would be incomplete in her eyes.

The pouch Dr. Bell had tossed to her was poking her hip, so she pulled it out and set it on the table. Carefully, she pulled apart the drawstring on the small bag and poured the contents on top of all her paperwork. Old coins spilled out. Very old coins. _Oh my hell_. She laughed out loud at his audacity. He really was stretching it to the limit.

She flipped over a few of the coins. Being an American, it had taken some time to become accustomed to the money system in England. Most of the time, she just relied on her bank card for larger purchases, so these coins were indeed foreign to her.

She got up and unplugged her _IPAD_ from its charger. With another deep sigh, she succumbed to her curiosity and first _googled_ Milton, UK. It was not a town she recognized, but being an American, she didn't know all the towns in England. How could she? He probably made it up. Indeed that whole conversation had been ridiculous.

Just as Maggie expected, there was not a single hit in the UK, other than the author John Milton, of course. There were plenty of places in the US named Milton, but none in the UK. She laughed at herself for even wasting the time to explore the craziness.

Then, she g_oogled_ Victorian money to check and see the value of the coins sitting in front of her. She sorted the unfamiliar coins into piles based on their looks. Based on what she found, Bell was somewhat generous with her. Three guineas, seventeen gold sovereigns, twenty-five shillings, and seven pence. So, just over twenty pounds? That would be a nice start at least.

"Twenty pounds in money back then…" she typed into the converter... "is equivalent to about twenty-five hundred dollars now…. Not bad, Dr. Bell." She then used the dollar to Euro conversion- she still had to do that even though she'd lived in England for three years. "Almost thirty five hundred."

Well if she was very, very careful that would last for quite a few months in 1850 England. If she really thought she'd need it. She laughed. Hard. There was no Milton, England. There was no worldly way she could move through time, no matter what her Nutty Professor believed.

"Ridiculous!" She shook her head, stood up from the table, and gathered all the coins back into the pouch. How could she let herself get caught up in the notion?

Of course the coins themselves had more value as antique coins then the twenty pounds on their face. But that wasn't the point. Bell was trying to get her to imagine life in 1850 England, and he thought these would help her. "Good one, Bell!" She placed the heavy coins back into the pouch and carried it with her to the overstuffed couch in front of the television.

After the rowdy crowd at the bar, she needed something calm and quiet, and something that wouldn't touch her brain at all. She settled into the sofa with a warm quilt, grabbed the remote, and after flipping through the channels on the television, decided on a rerun of _Top Gear_. She curled up, careful to keep the pouch in her hand, but it suddenly occurred to her that if she did indeed end up somewhere- and it was a huge, impossible if- she would want her phone, and her solar charger. Not that either would probably work in 1850, but she wanted her music, and her pictures, and well… just the comfort of something from 2014. Reluctantly, she got up, grabbed her devices and pushed them inside the pouch, pleased that they both fit.

"Bethany!" She remembered Bell told Maggie to leave her roommate a note. So she did, mentioning some vague trip to the north to do research, and that Dr. Bell knew where she would be, if something came up. "Not that he could call me or anything." She chuckled. "No phones in 1850, or flush toilets or hot showers." She frowned. "But, there would be enough information for me to put up with the inconveniences for a few weeks, and that is all it would take. Yes, Dr. Bell, I am game for anything to help me get this paper finished."

She laid back on the couch, threw her quilt across her hip again and sighed. "Throw me through the time warp, I'll find Adam Bell at the Blackmore Inn and enjoy the adventure. And no, I won't be disappointed when I wake up in this very spot, seven hours from now." She snuggled in deeper holding the pouch and hoping for the best.

"Maybe if I took up drinking this foolishness might actually make sense."


	2. Chapter 2

_"Every step I've taken has led me here to where you are_  
_But all that I believe in is keeping me from seeing too far_  
_Throwing out the questions, waiting for the right reply_  
_Looking for the answers, tell me will it be tonight?_

_But now it's too late, it's taking over me_  
_It feels so supernatural and I'm pulled the other way_  
_It's more than I can take and I'm losing hold of everything..._

_Through the atmosphere I'm seeing_  
_Glimpses of the past I'm leaving_  
_Holding on for life as we collide"_

_Daughtry ~~Supernatural~~_

Milton, 1851

Gradually regaining consciousness, Margaret shifted her drowsy body. Before even opening her eyes, she yawned and twisted her torso to relieve the ache in her shoulder and neck. She should have gone to sleep in her bed instead of letting herself fall asleep on her lumpy, overstuffed couch. She'd been lazy, tired from the pub, and vegging out in front of the television was more appealing than dragging her butt into her bedroom.

She yawned again and stretched her arms above her head, pointing her toes the opposite direction. She didn't have anywhere to be that morning, so lounging was exactly what she had planned. Slowly, she pried open her dry eyes ever so slightly, expecting bright light from the window. Instead, she was relieved by the low light of very early morning. She sighed with pleasure- there were very few days she could just go back to sleep for as long as she wanted to- and closed her eyes again, turned onto her side, and snuggled back into the quilt.

Suddenly, her eyes flew back open.

She wasn't on her couch, or in her bed.

"Oh my hell!"

She bolted upright and scanned the room as a feeling of panic enveloped her. In the low light, she couldn't see much, but knew she was sitting in the middle of a huge four poster bed. The room was paneled in a dark wood, with lighter, what looked like blue wallpaper on top. Heavy, dark drapes hung at the window, shielding most of the light from the outside. The only true light in the room came from the fireplace where a small fire burned. She jumped off the raised bed, which sat a good foot and a half off the ground and rushed to the window to pull back the drapes and allow some light into the room. She closed her eyes and took two deep breaths before looking outside. Where the hell was she?

Outside, several stories below, she could see people walking about, dressed in somber colors, and heavy coats. Men in big, tall, top hats and old fashioned suits walked side by side with ladies in long dresses with wide, bell shaped skirts billowing out in the wind.

"No frickin' way!" She laughed then, more from shock than humor. "_Oh Toto, we aren't in Kansas anymore_."

She looked outside for a few more minutes, transfixed by the scene unfolding below, trying to gain her bearings, and understand what had really happened. No cars. No trucks. No bikes. Several carriages led by horses. She swallowed the lump in her throat, and with a deep breath, dropped the velvet drapes and turned back to investigate the room. No television. Just two nice wing back chairs in front of a roaring fireplace, and the huge bed. Only one door, no bathroom to be seen. As she walked back to the bed, she finally realized she was wearing some long cotton nightgown that covered virtually every inch of her body and extended to her ankles. She hiked up the skirt and climbed back up onto the high bed.

The small burlap pouch she'd clutched as she drifted off to sleep the night before- on her couch, in 2014- was sitting on the middle of the bed. But where had her other clothes gone? This couldn't really be happening could it? She opened the pouch and pulled out her cell phone and its charger. Hitting the power button, the phone turned on right away, but the app icons were all skewed, and the time and date were way off, set back to December 1969. She clicked on the music app, hoping she could at least have that, and was pleased when Tim McGraw's music started to play.

Could it have really happened? Could she have landed somehow back in 1851 Milton as crazy Dr. Bell had promised? Well, it was clear she wasn't in her home. Had she been kidnapped? She laughed out loud. Who would kidnap a poor graduate student?

No one.

She fell backwards on the bed, wondering what she should do. Instinctively, she wanted to roll back into her quilt, go to sleep and see if she was really dreaming. Something told her that wasn't the best course of action, so instead, she decided to get up again. Nervous energy and excitement coursed through her. Could this be really happening?

Hotels, and she imagined that's where she was, due to the lack of ornamentation and personal effects, had servants back in this era._ If_ she had gone back in time. She laughed out loud. How the hell was this even possible? Ridiculous! She looked around the room, hunting for a bell pull somewhere to summon someone. She would ask for breakfast and hope for the best. What about clothing? "Crap!"

Panicked, she tossed the bedding around, hoping her old clothes were buried underneath the heavy quilts, but there was nothing. "How am I going to explain having no clothing? Good Gravy!"

She turned her sights back toward the door and spotted a thick, braided rope hanging near it, from the ceiling. She sighed, a moment of relief. She walked to the pull, and tugged on it. She wondered how long it would take someone to come. She hoped it would be quick. She turned off her music, just as Jason Derulo was suggesting she wiggle her butt, and sat on the chair in front of the fireplace, fighting the urge to wiggle from sheer nervousness.

"Adam Bell, Blackmore Inn." She said it out loud to remind herself who she was supposed to find as soon as she arrived. Not that she'd really believed she would arrive, and yet here she was. Wherever _here_ was. Could it be real?

Lost in her musings, the light rap at the door startled her. A young, smiling woman breezed in, carrying a gown over her arm.

"'ere's yer dress, lass. Me mum ironed it but good."

"Thank you," Margaret breathed, pleased to have clothing, but curious how the servant happened to come by the dress. She wouldn't ask. She really didn't think she wanted to know the answer.

"You be wantin' help to get it on?"

"Yes, please."

"Oh, I fergot yer under things. I washed 'em for you ye." She laid the gown across the bottom of the bed and scurried back toward the door. "I'll return."

Margaret went back to the window, hoping things would look different, that she'd hear the sound of a car horn, or engine roaring down the street, but no such luck. The same sights greeted her, mostly women with baskets bustling about.

"Right quick, eh?" The maid joked as she whisked her way back into the room. "Let's get you fixed up."

"What is your name, please?" Margaret asked her. Margaret stood and walked to where the maid held the pile of undergarments.

"Sally, Miss Bryce."

Together they were able to layer and tighten and fasten all the bindings that made up the clothing women of the mid nineteenth century were required to don. Before leaving Chicago for Oxford, Margaret had spent a summer at Gettysburg as an authentically dressed tour guide. As such, she was prepared for the clothing of the era. The corset though… she'd forgotten just how_ binding_ it really was. She'd never complain about an underwire bra again.

Sally waved for Margaret to sit. "I'll fix yer hair, Miss." Sally pulled Margaret's hair up with pins and stepped back to survey her creation. Margaret met Sally's eye in the mirror and smiled.

"Sally, I must be honest. I am a bit out of sorts today. What is the date?"

The maid looked at her with a skeptical brow. "Why Miss, it is the nineteenth of February."

Well, that helped. _Not_. She decided to try again.

"Eighteen…"

Sally rolled her eyes. "Miss, it is 1851."

"Well, of course it is! Oh my. I feel so tired today!" Margaret made a big spectacle of yawning. The girl had to think she was insane.

Maybe she was.

In reality, Margaret believed that somehow the crazy man had accomplished what she believed to be impossible. Victorian England, at the height of the Industrial Revolution. Just as she'd asked of Dr. Bell. How ridiculous!

"Will you be wantin' some breakfast?"

Margaret nodded.

Sally was quick to bring back some toast and very weak coffee, making Margaret wish Starbucks would be waiting for her on the corner of the street below. Margaret consumed just enough to settle her stomach, and then with determination she ventured from the room.

_February 19, 1851_. She shook her head, still astonished.

She'd told Dr. Bell that given this opportunity she would be successful, that she could merge into this society and solve the issue she had with her paper. She would not fail! How many people had ever been given such an opportunity? She certainly would not waste it.

Cautiously, she left her room. She'd been correct in her belief the building was a hotel, the narrow hallway outside her room had several doors with numbers. She found a staircase at the end of the hallway, because of course there were no elevators yet. 1851! When she reached the base of the stairs, she saw a few people were milling about in the foyer. She surreptitiously looked around, trying to find something familiar in her surroundings, something from the twenty-first century, still thinking someone might be playing a trick on her. Anything! A can of Coke or a telephone, even.

She walked through the main doors, to reach the outside, and paused as soon as she reached the sidewalk and looked around. It would be one hell of an elaborate hoax, given the fact that there were carriages with horses on the street, not cars. The women and men were dressed…well, in Victorian garb, much like her… She looked up, but could see no overhead wires, and certainly no stoplights. Gaslights were situated every few feet. It could be a movie set, she supposed. But why would she be on a movie set and how would she have transported to such a place?

She turned back to the building she'd just exited and looked at the brick to find a sign that broadly read, _Blackmore Inn_. Now, all she had to do was go inside and find the _other _Dr. Bell…. What had been his first name? She'd remembered it just a few minutes earlier. She shivered from the chilly morning air and quickly moved back inside to the massive front desk, pleased the clerk behind it smiled at her.

"Were you needing something, Miss Bryce?"

How did he know her name? Considering all the other stuff going on, why shouldn't he? This was all so crazy.

"Well yes, ah that is, Dr. Bell is staying here but I don't remember which room?"

"Of course! He is in twenty-two, his usual suite just at the top of the stairs on the left. Miss," the clerk continued, "will you be needing your room for another evening?"

"Hmm." She had to wonder that herself. "I'm not certain just yet. I'll get back to you on that. Okay?"

"Okay?" The clerk looked puzzled. Of course he would be, that's a slang word he wouldn't have heard before.

She smiled sweetly at him, hoping to distract his curiosity. "I'm an American." She shrugged again. "Okay means acceptable. So is it alright with you if I let you know later today? About the room, that is."

"Oh." He smiled back at her. "Yes, that is acceptable. As long as we know by midday or we shall have to prepare the room for another occupant."

"Thank you." She nodded to him with a slight smile, and walked up to room twenty-two, just down the hall from where she'd slept the night before.

Reluctantly, she raised her hand and rapped her knuckles against the heavy wood door. How forward for the times! A woman knocking on a man's hotel room! How else would she find him? She waited a full minute, and after hearing nothing, tried one more time, a bit firmer, creating a louder knock. Still no answer.

"Shoot!" She twisted her lips, frustrated, and walked away, thinking she'd need to come back later. What if he wasn't in Milton? Surely he didn't live at the hotel all the time?

She walked back downstairs determined to find a newspaper, and then return to her room. She asked the friendly clerk to have more coffee sent up to her room and was handed a paper as soon as she asked. The date checked out. The paper was yesterday's, but that was close enough for her.

"Very well miss. Right away." The man was far too cheerful for such an early time of the day.

She climbed the stairs again, passed Bell's room and listened at the door, just in case. When she got in her room, she grabbed her phone to see if she could figure out how to make some of the apps work, other than the music. She sat in one of the single chairs to patiently wait for her coffee to be delivered. The _Kindle_ app worked on her phone, and suddenly her enormous library was available to her. Having her music and books accessible made her feel a little more settled. She didn't have long to wait before there was a light rap on her door. Thinking it was her coffee, and Sally would simply walk in, Margaret quickly hid her phone under a pillow on her bed. When the door didn't immediately open, she pulled it open.

Instead of Sally carrying a tray of coffee, Margaret found a tall grey-haired man, dressed quite fashionably in a grey wool suit, black waistcoat and cravat. He shot her a dazzling white smile that brought wrinkles to the corners of his brilliant blue eyes.

"Hello!" he greeted her. "I understand you have come looking for me, Miss?"

"Dr. Bell?" she asked anxiously, greatly comforted when he nodded.

"Adam Bell at your service, Miss...?"

"Bryce." She held out her hand and he took it and give it a tight squeeze. "I'm Margaret Bryce."

"From America from the sound of your voice?" He still held her hand.

"Yes," she sighed. "Thank God you are really you." She took a step back. "Come in, come in."

He looked shocked at first and then narrowed his eyes. "Miss Bryce, that would not be a good idea. English gentleman do not enter the rooms of women that are not their mother or their wife."

"Oh dear! Of course, not!" She chuckled and shook her head. "You don't know why I am here, do you?" she asked quietly.

"I imagine you may have been sent by one of my colleagues?" His expressive eyebrows raised and he tipped his head slightly. "Perhaps even a relation?"

She nodded. "Dr. J. Whitman Bell of Oxford."

"Indeed?" He tipped his chin low, and leaned back from the waist. He was quite a bit taller than Margaret. "And what year is he at Oxford?" he whispered.

"2014." she answered quietly.

His eyes widened and then suddenly he clapped and laughed. "The 21st century? How Marvelous!" A wide smile continued across his face. "Are you ready for your day, perhaps we can take a walk and discuss what must be done?"

"I was waiting on some coffee, but I can go with you now," she told him. "Just a sec, I have to grab my pouch." She went back further into the room and grabbed her bag.

"Pouch?" he asked with a chuckle. "We call them reticules or bags."

"No, look!" She held up the burlap pouch. "_My_ Dr. Bell gave me this. With some money in it."

"Ah." He nodded. "That _is_ a pouch." He stared at her a moment. "Shall we?" He held out his elbow for her to take hold, which she did.

"Thank you."

"Tell me Miss Bryce, why Milton in 1851?" He stopped walking in the middle of the hallway and looked down at her. "Oh, you do know that's where and when you are?"

She laughed. "I was led to believe it, yes, and I bought a newspaper just to be sure." They moved on and descended the staircase and paused in the foyer.

"Was this your particular request, to come here and now, or did your Whitman Bell simply pick this?" he asked

"I am a scholar at Oxford, sir." She spoke quietly, so only Adam Bell could hear her. "I came from Chicago in America to study there. Dr. Bell is my adviser, and this place and time period is my area of study and era of study."

"A scholar! Well, then it shall be easy to find you a home for you to further your study. I assume that is why you are here? To better understand this time?"

"Yes." She nodded and smiled.

"Come, let us have a seat in the eatery and have some coffee, shall we?" He gestured toward the restaurant on the side of the lobby.

"Ok," she said. "Oh, Dr. Bell." She stopped suddenly. "Will I need my room for another evening?"

"Yes." His lips twisted in thought. "Perhaps two more nights?"

"Fine." She smiled at him. "I'll go tell the clerk and join you in a minute."

She took care of her business and joined him almost immediately. Dr. Bell stood as soon as she neared the table. _Ah, manners of a gentleman_. Why had that disappeared in her time?

Dr. Bell was a very handsome, stately, debonair man. He was surely in his early sixties perhaps a little bit younger. He looked down at her with a hint of a grin as she reached the table. Well over six feet tall, slender, fashionably dressed and well groomed, Margaret had the feeling he was wealthy. At least he looked the part. He pulled out a chair for her and helped her get situated.

"So, my dear," Dr. Bell began, "I must tell you it was 1971 when I traveled back in time." A coffee pot and two cups arrived, causing him to pause in his explanation. He continued as soon as the maid left them. "Ironically, I came for much the same reason you have. I was studying culture of the early 19th century, though, not the industrial revolution per se. I wished to compare it to the early 20th century. 1830's vs. the 1930's."

"I see." She filled up his coffee cup and then her own.

"You were not born yet?" he asked. "In 1971?"

"I was not." She shook her head and answered rather sheepishly, "I was not born until 1990."

Dr. Bell barked in laughter, catching her off guard. "So, tell me. Has there been a woman president or prime minister yet in your time?"

"Yes!" she swallowed back some coffee. "You would know the name Margaret Thatcher, I'm certain? She became party leader and then prime minister in your England."

"Indeed? Good on her then!"

"In the US, not just yet, but there's a good chance in the next election that there might be. She's the wife of a former president, a very liberal woman."

"And what about Vietnam?" He took another sip of coffee. "I trust the US won that one?"

She snorted and then laughed. "Excuse me. That was very unladylike." She laughed again. "There were no winners in that one. I think we just gave up really, but we never went back. Recently it's been more issues with places in the Middle East. Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan. I imagine they are still known as Persia and Arabia at this time?"

"Interesting." He nodded. "I've never been there."

She sat silently as he stared at her. It wasn't uncomfortable, but she could tell he was measuring her character, perhaps trying to decide just what to do with her.

"Have you finished your coffee? Would you care to go for a walk? I'd be pleased to show you Milton."

"Great idea." She took one long sip and set the cup back down. "All set!" She stood up, and the he did as well.

"You will need a coat. Shall we go procure one for you? It will be chilly for some weeks yet."

He gave her his elbow again as they started down the main street. "This is called New Street. It's the main thoroughfare through Milton. Most roads connect here."

She smiled as she made brief eye contact with men and women as they walked down the street.

"What a lovely day. It's hard to imagine so much sun in northern England in February. Glorious day!" He paused and then glanced down at her.

They walked on for a bit longer. She was fascinated by the dresses and the buildings. "Shall we sit on that bench over there?" He nodded with his head.

She sat on the wrought iron bench he indicated, situated in front of _Lowland Draper's Shop._ They were somewhat isolated, but with some foot traffic. No one would be overly curious certainly about what they were speaking. He was old enough to be her father, so to the rest of the world that is how it might appear, father and daughter enjoying a rare sunny day in the north of England

"Now then." He crossed his legs and rested his hand on his knee, looking ahead, not directly at her. "Allow me to tell you, Miss Bryce, you are a _traveler_."

"Well, yes," she agreed. "I do like to travel, and I have traveled quite a bit."

"No, no, my dear, that's what we refer to ourselves." He turned to her then. "People who come back and forth through time. We are called _the travelers_."

"There are many such people?" She was shocked, really, to think there would be enough people to have actually created a special name for them.

"I daresay thousands." He exhaled loudly, and shook his head as if considering the implication of all these people wandering in time periods to which they do not belong.

"So this is legit?" she asked him. "I'm not crazy, right?"

"Legitimate?" He laughed at her. "I like hearing the new vernacular, you must share more of it with me."

She ignored his teasing. "How did it happen? How in the world did J. Whitman Bell get me here?"

"I cannot tell you, or I'd have to kill you."

She laughed at his serious face.

"No, really. I would." He remained stoic. A younger man came up to where they sat and greeted Dr. Bell.

"Charlie Morris, this is Miss Margaret Bryce. She is my associate. A writer from Oxford who's in Milton to complete some research for me. Miss Bryce, Mr. Morris is with my bank here in Milton. His father and grandfather own it, and it is his grand scheme to follow in their footsteps."

Margaret gave the man a smile before looking down, demurely at her hands.

"Mr. Bell, you would have Miss Bryce believe I am a social climber." He had an annoying nasally tone that grated on her senses.

She looked up into Mr. Morris' face. Jarred by the unexpected heated glanced he was giving her, she looked away again, toward Mr. Bell. He sensed her discomfort and continued the discussion without involving her.

"You'll be at the concert this evening, Miss Bryce?" Mr. Morris asked just as he was leaving.

"As _my_ guest, Morris," Dr. Bell stated.

"I see." Morris nodded and tipped his hat as a goodbye.

"That wasn't comfortable," she said. "I thought men were more reserved in this era."

"Most are, my dear." He patted her hand. "Are you comfortable with that introduction I gave of your presence here? I think it might serve your purpose, allow you to research this time period, with a specific goal of providing me with me information?"

"Yes. I believe it's a perfect cover, Dr. Bell." She smiled up at him and the looked away. He was an odd duck. Mysterious. "Thank you for thinking of it."

"Margaret, people call me Mr. Bell here in Milton. You may call me Adam when we are alone, if you wish?"

"Thanks." She shifted on the bench and looked around. "J. Whitman said you would get me situated."

"And, I shall be glad to do so," he agreed. "I have many contacts, but it may take a day or two to find you a situation."

"That would be great," she said. "Could you tell me, Adam, where Milton is exactly? I looked at a map before coming here and it wasn't on it."

"Milton is in the heart of Darkshire, in north western England. We are close to both Manchester and Liverpool. The town relies almost exclusively on cotton mills for employment and its economy. I myself own two of the buildings where mills are operated."

"Only two?" she teased.

He smiled at her. "You realize you are a lovely young lady? No wonder Mr. Morris was so instantly captivated by you."

"You flatter me, Adam. I am rather short and plain, but I thank you for the compliment." She stared into his startling blue eyes. "Who are you, exactly?" she asked him a bit flabbergasted by him.

"Well, that is not so difficult to explain. I am a simple man. Currently, I'm an Oxford _don_, not so unlike you it would seem?"

"I would argue that there seems to be nothing _simple_ about you!"

He chuckled.

"I was thinking a mill family might be the best place for you to settle. It would give you a good understanding of the technology you wish to discuss. However, I cannot come up with one of those at present who would understand and accept your appearance."

"I see," she answered, feeling a bit disappointed. Surely he could find somewhere for her to stay.

"Perhaps you would marry me, then there would be no further worries?"

Her eyes widened. He had the same serious face he wore earlier when he suggested he might have to kill her if she learned too much.

"I'm rich," he continued, bending into her side. "We share much in common it would seem. You'd have access to anything you might need for your research. You could go back and forth between times fairly seamlessly." He studied her. "You're extraordinarily pretty, despite what you claim." He smiled at her. "I'd do well by you."

She'd waited twenty-four years for a marriage proposal. Now, after meeting Adam Bell not three hours earlier, he was proposing marriage.

"Um, I don't think… that is… what if I choose not to stay… and we're… married?" She remembered her initial reaction to having sex with a Victorian era man, and add to that Adam's Bell's advanced years, she knew there was no way she could even consider such an offer. She held back a shiver, so as to not offend him. He was her only link here in 1851, she couldn't afford to offend him!

"I suppose I could travel back with you." He studied her with a flat, blank expression on his face. "What an amazing journey that would be!"

She smiled and squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Adam. I _am_ flattered, but I must decline at present."

"Very well." He sighed and smiled.

She wondered if he was really serious in the first place. She preferred the looks and stability of older men, just not double her age.

He looked off into the distance, and then nodded in acknowledgement as another well-dressed man walked by them. "There is a family I've known since I first arrived at Oxford. He helped me navigate through the trials and tribulations of life a hundred and twenty years before my time. He will be pleased to help you as well." He continued to stare off in the distance. Had she offended him?

"Is he here in Milton?" she asked.

"Not yet, but they is coming later this week." He looked back at her. "His name is Richard Hale and his wife is Maria. They are about my age perhaps a few years beyond. He was a clergyman in the south, a small country village in the New Forrest called Helstone."

"It sounds perfect."

"Indeed! Perhaps that's why the Fates directed you here at this particular time?" He smiled at her. "I believe if I ask them, they will gladly take you in."

"Is he a _traveler_?"

"He is not." Adam answered. "But he well understands and accepts the idea of it, as I said he was quite helpful in getting me settled when I first arrived. We were both quite young men back then."

"What will he do here, if he has left the church?" she asked.

"He will be tutoring, giving lectures." He brushed invisible threads from his pants.

"Here in Milton?" She was surprised there would be a need for tutoring in an industrial town. From her research she knew education was not a priority at this time. "I should think that occupation might be better suited to your Oxford."

"Yet, he has decamped from the church and must situate himself somewhere new." Adam shrugged. "Please do not misunderstand." He pinned her with his gaze. "He has not left in embarrassment, Margaret. He's a fine man, but one with a heavy conscious."

"This will be quite a change for them." She fondly remembered the countryside of the south when she went on a tour of England her first summer here. It was so different than this industrial town, even though she'd only been given glimpses of this place.

"They have a financial living from both of their families. It's just been the two of them for thirty years." Adam uncrossed his legs and rested his hands on his knees. "They've lived a frugal life. I believe them to be quite comfortable. Richard has asked me to find a secure lodging. In fact, you might help me with that, dear girl. Perhaps you will come with me to meet John Thornton, the Master of Marlborough Mills? He has several properties near the mill that come as part of his rental agreement. Perhaps one might be suitable for the Hales and you?"

"Sure, I could do that." She paused. "I was wondering…well, while I am here in Milton, I just as well do something besides research. Is there a job I could take? Something for income? I don't think I'd like to work in a mill, I'm not used to manual labor, but surely there could be an alternative?"

He studied her and then a small smile broke out at the corner of his lips. "If you plan to stay for a bit, I imagine you would do quite well as a teacher. What do you think about that?"

"I just criticized Mr. Hale for taking a job as a tutor, now you ask if I wish to teach in Milton?" she asked, incredulous.

"Margaret, I have a lady friend who runs a school on the outskirts of Milton in a rather sketchy area, but safe enough I should think for a confident lady such as yourself. She would be glad to welcome you with my recommendation."

"When might I meet the Hales and your lady _friend_?" Her lips twisted into a teasing smile. So he's a_ player_. She holds back a chuckle.

"I shall go pave the way for you today, with Mrs. Wilkinson. The Hales are to arrive in three days' time, so perhaps by then you and I shall have secured lodgings?"

She nodded in agreement.

"I shall send word to John Thornton that we will be coming to call on him at his Mill tomorrow?"

"That sounds like a plan, Adam." She grinned at him.

"But, _tonight_," he continued, "I have tickets to the concert at the Lyceum Hall that Mr. Morris mentioned. Would you truly care to accompany me?"

"Of course! It would be cool to take advantage of as much as I can while I'm here," she answered. She looked at him closely. "May I ask you, why did you never return to your time?"

He chuckled. "That I will save for a conversation when we know each other better." He winked and reached into his pants pocket and extracted some coins. "Go buy yourself some clothing. Get a heavy wool coat, gloves, and a hat. You'll also need a _very nice_ gown for this evening, shoes and whatever else a woman requires. I should think something in rose might suit you." He studied her. "You have lovely coloring, especially when I continually make your face flush."

"I can't accept this." She held the coins out to him.

"Of course you can!" He stood with a smile. "Now, I shall see you in a few hours in the hotel lobby. Half passed six, sharp." He bent and kissed her cheek. Their eyes met and he smiled wide. "It's my age isn't it?" He teased with a wink, and sauntered away, swinging his fancy walking stick.

If she were older… or he were younger…

She looked down at the coins in her hand, thankful she'd looked the others up on _google_ the previous day. Oh this was so insane. 1851 England. How the hell did this happen? Clutching her burlap pouch, the only connection back to 2014 she had with her, she stood and looked about, studying the painted signs above the various shops on New Street. She went first to the closest draper's shop, hoping _Lowland_ would be able to fulfill all her clothing needs.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Even the best fall down sometimes  
Even the wrong words seem to rhyme  
Out of the doubt that fills your mind  
I somehow find you and I collide…_

_I'm quiet you know  
You make a first impression  
I've found I'm scared to know  
I'm always on your mind…_

_Even the best fall down sometimes  
Even the stars refuse to shine  
Out of the back you fall in time  
I somehow find you and I collide"_

_Howie Day ~~Collide~~_

She'd found a rose colored gown as Adam Bell had requested, and was pleased how correct he was in his assessment of the color against her skin. The modiste was able to alter it immediately that afternoon, so it fit perfectly, although a bit more snuggly than she was used to. She shied away from pink and pastels as much as she could. Never considered a girly-girl, tonight in this get-up of multiple layers and boning that would kill any man, she felt gorgeous. And if she were being honest, she looked pretty smoking hot.

She lucked out on scoring the gown. It was abandoned at the _Lowland Draper's_ by a woman whose husband was transferred to London. It was of a very fine cream silk taffeta, woven with pink satin ribbon stripes. Ivory and pink silk hung in skinny fringes around a bertha collar and although it was late winter, Margaret felt comfortable with the short sleeves.

As she looked at herself one final time in the mirror, she worried about the cut of the bodice. Try as she might, she couldn't pull it up any further and have it remain where it should on her shoulders. She felt exposed, but the modiste assured her it was very much the style, and pointed out how flattering the front of the gown was. It tapered to a _very_ exaggerated "V" cinching in her already narrow waist. Turning sideways, Margaret admired the pink silk laces at the back. Sally had pinned up her hair, but allowed curled ringlets to hang at the back. This was the most feminine she had ever felt. She smiled at herself in the mirror, glanced at the clock, glad she was right on time, and left her room.

At the bottom of the stairs, Mr. Bell stood as she began her decent toward him. Too bad he wasn't oh, 30 years younger. He had such lovely manners. He took her hand, kissed her knuckles and then helped her adjust a warm woolen wrap on her shoulders.

"Miss Bryce, you are absolutely stunning this evening." He dragged out each and every syllable as he spoke to her. "I shall be the envy of every man in Milton."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Thank you, Mr. Bell. I must admit this _is_ the prettiest dress I have ever owned. I hope it is appropriate for tonight."

"It's simply perfect," he answered. He studied her for a moment and then smiled. "It's a nice evening, shall we walk? We are not far from the hall."

"Certainly," she agreed.

The air was crisp but not too cold for a short walk. It would be nice to get fresh air after spending well over an hour primping for the evening's performance. They moved along a full block down the street before Mr. Bell spoke.

"Well, my dear, I have decided to introduce you as Margaret Bryce, my_ goddaughter_. I shall say your father and I are very old acquaintances, that I knew him before he went to Chicago." He looked down at her. "What was his name, by the way?" He laughed.

"Dan." She didn't like thinking about her loser father, a man who ditched her mother when Margaret was only three. Not that her mother was perfect, but Margaret was good as a little girl and had deserved to have a decent parent. She looked up to the handsome gentleman escorting her to the concert, and decided perhaps the Fates had guided her to him to fill that need for a father figure.

"Right, then." Adam nodded. "Dan Bryce and I were close friends before he left Oxford for Chicago. Three years ago, he sent you here to help me with research. He wanted you to experience where he grew into a man. How does that sound, my dear?"

"Perfect." She squeezed his arm. Could he tell how nervous she was?

They walked along in comfortable silence for a few more blocks before Adam spoke again.

"I expect many of the mill masters and other influential people of Milton will be here this evening." He looked straight ahead as they walked on.

That comment did little to assuage her fears. A crowd was gathering outside of what she assumed was the Lyceum Hall. They joined them, pausing at the end of a long line of people in the darkening light of the day.

"I suppose the Mr. Thornton you spoke of earlier will be here this evening?" she asked quietly, so no one would overhear. "The one we are to meet tomorrow?"

"Yes, indeed." Adam nodded. "He usually attends events such as this. I sent word earlier today that we would be visiting him at ten o'clock tomorrow." He stopped walking and looked down at her in the glow of the gaslights. "It might be good for you to meet him ahead of time."

"Why?" She frowned.

"He can be a bit… how shall I say it?" His lips twisted. "Well, he's quite stern, taciturn. Never smiles, has a perpetual scowl on his face. Very serious fellow. He's had to be, he's not had an easy go of it."

"So, a tight ass?" She whispered and then chuckled.

He barked a laugh, drawing the attention of people nearby. "I don't believe I've heard that one. But, yes, if I'm understanding the usage, I'd say you were spot on."

"This appears to be a new building," Margaret observed, changing the subject from John Thornton. It was too dark to see any great detail of the outside, but inside the building was lit by dozens of ornate, shiny, chandeliers hanging all over the ceiling. Their lights reflected off the mirrored walls and highlighted the colorful murals on the walls, which depicted what she believed to be various Shakespearean plays. "How beautiful." She looked around the lobby, admiring the design.

They followed a procession of couples from the lobby into the actual concert hall. She was glad she'd dressed well. It seemed this event allowed people of all classes to attend and the quality of clothing was only the distinction of class. She might not be wealthy, but she was very well educated, and would have been considered a lady of considerable position in the community, equal to any of the fine mill masters and leaders of the Milton community, just based on that.

"You must tell me if I commit some faux-pas this evening. If you see me about to do so, I give you permission to alert me by any means you see fit." She finally had the courage to voice her concern.

"I have no worries, Miss Bryce." He patted the hand that still clung to his arm. "You carry yourself with the grace of a queen."

She caught herself before she snorted, that would definitely not be queen-like.

"Well, here we are." They'd made it to the door of the sitting area of the concert hall. "Do we have our story in line?"

"Yes, we do Mr. Bell." She nodded.

"Excellent!" He guided her slightly aside from the throng of people. She stepped away from him to examine the murals a bit more closely, and discretely study the people she would be spending the evening with.

She felt like she was at the junior prom, only with all adults and no bad D.J. And no dancing. But the people dressed up could have been going to prom. Oh dear, she didn't know how to maneuver the dances from this era. Maybe Mr. Bell would teach her. Or maybe she wouldn't have a need to dance at all.

She turned to ask Mr. Bell about dancing, but instead caught the intense, dark gaze of a tall dark, brooding man standing just slightly away, with two women and several men. After he made eye contact with her, he immediately excused himself from his little group and approached them.

Was this someone Mr. Bell knew? She sure hoped so. Her heart began to thump wildly in her chest. What the hell? She never reacted to handsome men in this way. Not ever! And, he wasn't really _sexy_ hot either, but his intense eyes and body were definitely... yummy.

"Ah, Thornton!" Mr. Bell greeted the tall, dark and yummy man. He not only knew him, but this was the man they'd been discussing earlier. "I was hoping we might come across you this evening."

She couldn't stop staring at him, which probably was very improper, but it would be impossible for her to avoid doing so. _This_ was Mr. John Thornton. Not the old stogy man as she'd expected to meet the following day at his mill.

"Mr. Bell." He nodded a greeting to Bell, but after a fleeting glance at the older man, Thornton's eyes locked on Margaret. She swallowed at its intensity.

"May I introduce Margaret Bryce, an American, but lately of Oxford? Miss Margaret this is Mr. John Thornton of Marlborough Mills."

She held out her hand before thinking better of it. She'd made the same mistake in propriety when she'd met Mr. Bell. She couldn't withdraw it without looking stupid, so she went with it.

He took her extended hand, thankfully, without missing a beat, and clasped it tightly, before slowly pulling away. Lord, she was in need of a fan.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir." That sounded good, she thought.

"What brings you to Milton, Miss Bryce?" His voice sent tingles up her spine.

"I've come on a research project for Mr. Bell." She smiled up at the older man, trying to cover her attraction to Thornton. "I'm a rather skilled writer and he'd like some papers written and research done to use for one of his classes."

"Is that right?" He sounded skeptical, but his face revealed nothing as he continued to stare at her. "And Milton is the place for you to do this research?"

His voice was incredible. It was thick, like a good gravy or melted chocolate. In the dark, she would give into this man, if only he would keep talking to her. Well, he probably didn't need to talk the whole time…

"Yes." She sputtered. "That is, Mr. Bell is teaching a course on the social and economic effects of technology on today's class system in England. He thought Milton, being a growing industrial center would be the ideal place for in depth study. Did you not, Mr. Bell?" She realized she was talking too quickly, babbling really.

"Yes, indeed," He agreed with a nod. She noticed a small smile playing on the edge of his lips as if he knew she was running in panic mode.

"Miss Bryce had suggested Manchester or Liverpool at first, but I think a study of a smaller area might be better for my students to understand." He paused and glanced down at her. "Miss Bryce is a very skilled scholar in her own right. Were she not a woman, I believe she would be embraced at a lecturer at Oxford."

"Thank you, Mr. Bell," she answered, thinking how accurate he was. "I'm pleased by the opportunity to learn whatever I can in Milton."

"And with your attendance here this evening I might conclude you enjoy music?" Thornton asked.

He seemed genuinely interested in her, not just making polite small talk, and there was no scowl on his face at the moment. His eyes were soft and he seemed well at ease. She wasn't so naïve to think he didn't find her attractive, his eyes spoke volumes. She glanced down at his left hand, wondering if men worse rings at this time. Lord, she was lacking in education about just the basic facts of this era… food, handshakes and rings. No ring, but did that matter?

"Yes, I do enjoy music. I find pleasure in _many_ things." Oh goodness had she really just said that?

Why was she flirting with this man? Women of this era did not flirt unless they were serious about a suitor. That much she knew. She continued to meet his gaze, fighting the urge to run away instead. That fight or flight instinct apparently showed itself when lust was involved as well as fear. And she wanted him alright, how odd was that? A virgin still at twenty-four but the first Victorian dude she meets, she wants to sleep with.

"Have you been in Milton long, Miss Bryce?" Gah! That voice was so amazing it curled her toes.

"I arrived just this morning," she said, her thoughts still hovering in the gutter. "I was pleased that Mr. Bell invited me to attend this evening."

"They have these concerts weekly at this time of the year," he told her.

Margaret looked over his broad shoulder as the woman who'd been standing next to Thornton joined their group. She was about Margaret's age, taller, with white-blonde hair and lovely blue eyes. Of course he would be married! A man with his charisma and looks wouldn't still be single at his age. Disappointed, she looked away from Thornton and smiled instead at the young woman. She could use all the friends she could get while in Milton.

"Ah, Fanny," Thornton looked down fondly at the woman. "You are acquainted with Mr. Bell. This is his …."

"Goddaughter, and now research assistant," Bell supplied when Thornton paused. The dapper gentleman bent over Fanny's knuckles and placed a chaste kiss upon them. "Miss Margaret Bryce."

"It's a pleasure." Margaret looked between Thornton and the blond and then after noting the identical color of their eyes and similar set of their chins, it clicked. "You are… siblings?" He looked surprised. _Just getting the lay of the land, buddy_.

"Pardon me." He looked contrite for a moment. "Yes, this my sister Frances."

Fanny bowed slightly, still smiling a sort of a sickly sweet fake smile. She reminded Margaret a bit like a Barbie doll, but with a more well-proportioned body, although the bell shaped skirts made it hard to determine her true figure.

"That's a lovely dress, Miss Bryce," Fanny complimented. "Did you get it in London, perchance?"

"Ah, no. I found it here in Milton, actually." She glanced down at the silk dress. "I hadn't anticipated attending an event such as this, so I left most of my wardrobe in Oxford." Complete truth on that one.

Surprised by the sound of a light drum roll, Margaret looked up to Mr. Bell for guidance. "It is time to find our seats, Miss Bryce." He whispered in her ear. "Thornton! We shall call on you at ten tomorrow if that is still acceptable."

"Yes, of course." Thornton nodded to Margaret. "Until tomorrow." His eyes said more.

Mr. Bell guided her away, toward the seats arranged in rows, in front of a long and wide wooden stage. After he saw her comfortably settled, he joined her.

"Well done, my dear," he said quietly as people piled in around them. "I believe you charmed the socks off that man. To think he has an expression beyond a scowl! Remarkable!"

"He doesn't look so fierce, Mr. Bell." She thought of some of the drunken college fools that she'd had hauled out of the tavern. "He's seems to act just as I would expect from a gentleman of this time."

He frowned at her assessment. "He is_ not_ a gentleman, Margaret." It was said in a very quiet voice. "He is a _tradesman_, really a manufacturer, but they are often lumped into the same pile. His status might cause the fancy folks in certain parts of the country to look down upon him, despite his achievements and wealth." He sighed and stretched out his long legs in front of him. "This is perhaps your first lesson in social structure of the age, my dear. He will never be considered equal in class to many in London simply because he was not raised a gentleman. Many will look down their noses at him, shun him really."

"Yes, of course." She nodded, considering that it was unfair that such a man should feel slighted by anyone. "I understand that well, Mr. Bell. My paper _is_ on class structure, after all." She smiled. "But to see it up close and personal as I am? Well, this is a wish I never would have expected to have answered!"

"He has rightfully been called a bulldog, Margaret. I must warn you of his temper and perhaps his ferocious… teeth." He made a point to smile broadly flashing his pearly whites.

She shook her head with a small laugh and focused on the theater that was now nearly full to capacity. A bulldog! What a funny comparison. She'd seen no anger, or hint of behavior that she would be wary of it. She trusted Mr. Bell, even after such a short acquaintance, so there must be something in Thornton's personality she had yet to witness. Margaret would be cautious with Mr. Thornton, but at the moment, her body was still tingling from just the simple contact with him.

John Thornton tried to keep his mind focused on the ledgers at his elbow, but after a while, he realized it was useless. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. His mind was elsewhere today. Since half-passed seven, when he arrived in the office, after his breakfast and early rounds in each shed and room of the mill to ensure all machines were up and running, he'd been awaiting _her_ visit.

What in the world had gotten into him? He hadn't slept but a wink the night before, so entranced with Margaret Bryce. God, she had bewitched him. Her voice was unique, an accent he couldn't place, but one he questioned all night. She was beautiful. Plain and simple, he'd never met anyone so lovely. Her hair, a light brown with golden highlights, had been piled on her head in a fashionable style of the day, leaving her wide, green eyes visible for him to feast upon. She was short, he decided with a small smirk. Significantly shorter than him, but with some spark in her carriage that made her seem larger than life. Smart, too, and he looked forward to an opportunity where he might discuss his ideas about what she planned to research. _The disparity between classes in an industrial town_… what he saw and lived day in and day out would be easy to share with her. Solutions would be far less forthcoming, at least not that he could envision in his lifetime.

It was now half passed nine. He'd wasted the whole morning thinking about her. The way she smiled, the way she spoke so passionately about her studies. She used her hands as she spoke, something women rarely did. Just the excitement she showed as she spoke with him- a virtual stranger- was something women didn't do, at least when speaking with him.

Fanny once told him he intimidated women, that normally outgoing, friendly women would become mute and shy when confronted by him. He'd asked her if it was his height. She's snorted and said it was his commanding personality and unless he learned to be less frightening, he would never find a wife.

Until recently, he hadn't _wanted_ to find a wife. The evening of New Year's Day, when he'd stood overlooking the empty mill courtyard, feeling just as lonely himself, he'd made the decision that 1851 would be the year to find a companion, or at least become more open to the possibility of becoming engaged to be married. Until meeting Miss Bryce, he'd not found any young lady in Milton, or during his business travels to Liverpool or La Havre, that captured his attention for more than a fleeting glance.

Margaret Bryce had been worth more than a passing look last night. Indeed, she'd mesmerized him. If asked about the concert performance, John wouldn't be able to comment. He and Fanny had sat toward the back, giving him the opportunity to watch Margaret the whole evening as she enjoyed the concert. And watch her he had.

Finally the time neared that she and Bell would arrive. He rooted around on his desk to find the slip of paper where he'd written directions for currently vacant accommodations in the better part of Milton. The paper listed three places that would suit the Hales based on Bell's description. The rents were affordable, the locations decent, not the finest, but not where his hands lived, either. Hopefully one would suit them.

It seemed peculiar these Southerners would come to a northern industrial town. Knowing Richard Hale was a former vicar, John found it strange he was suddenly leaving the south for a completely different life in the north. The Hales removal conjured up all sorts of ugly ideas in his head. John chose to disregard them, hoping Hale would be a fine, upstanding man.

Bell's note of the day before said Hale was coming to tutor, that he was knowledgeable in many languages and classical literature. Thornton considered his own lack of knowledge in those areas, areas which he'd been forced to abandon at sixteen to care for his family. John wondered if he might benefit from befriending a man such as Mr. Hale. A scholar in his midst!

Just before ten o'clock, he could wait no longer. Perhaps they would arrive early? He stood, stretched his arms above his head, and then shrugged back into his frock coat, covering his crisp white shirt and gray waistcoat. He hated wearing the costume of a fine gentleman. Despite his rise to power and preeminence in Milton, he so often felt like the lost and uncertain teenage draper's assistant he once was.

This morning he'd taken extra care with his wardrobe, had worn a new shirt, gray cravat and matching waistcoat instead of his usual full black attire. His mother had questioned him about his outfit at breakfast, noticing the change. John had only smiled and said he had a special appointment that morning. She'd looked skeptical, but hadn't commented further.

He left his office, determined to meet Mr. Bell and Miss Bryce at the gates of his mill. Walking down the ramp that joined his office to the main floor of the weaver's shed, John surveyed the hands hard at work, making the finest cotton material in the world. Pride infused his soul. He had climbed from a common worker to master of the whole mill, a leader in Milton and respected businessman in England and beyond.

_Was that smoke_? Damn it, it was! Smoke wafted in curly tendrils from a small pipe sticking out of a weaver's mouth as he walked down the narrow rows between looms. John's heart began to race. Fire was the biggest threat to his mill and here this idiot was smoking!

"Stevens!" John screamed, with all the power and force he could muster from his gut, and took off running toward the fool.

Stevens saw him immediately and raced off to the back of the shed running as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heel, which in a way they were. He would have hell to pay, make no doubt.

John ran after the weaver, his long legs quickly allowing him to catch him as they chased through the weaving shed to the very back room which connected directly through a door to the carding room. He tripped the man, pulled him back up roughly and pushed him against the wall. Panting heavily from fear and the exertion, John ripped through the man's pockets until he found the offending pipe.

"I weren't smoking master. I weren't" the man cried, but as soon as Thornton found the pipe, he realized the man was lying! "It's still warm you bloody bastard. How dare you?" He let go of the man who slid to floor.

Thornton couldn't help his anger, This man could have killed hundreds by his thoughtless actions, he felt compelled to kick the man lying on the ground, not just once, but repeatedly, feeling the anger mount rather than dissipate as he extended his leg over and over and over again.

"Stop! Mr. Thornton, what are you doing?" A woman's voice broke in. "Mr. Thornton stop. Stop right now!" He then felt small hands pulling at him to turn, so turn he did.

"Bell, get 'er out of 'ere," John yelled, his unrefined accent showing itself.

Miss Bryce dropped her hands from his arm, a look of disappointment mingled with outright disgust coloring her face. She immediately turned on her heel and left. Bell, on the other hand, remained, arms crossed at his chest, a look of disapproval on his face.

"Get the 'ell out of 'ere Stevens. Crawl on yer belly like the snake you are and don't let me see yer mug 'ere again!" John shifted his glance from the man on the floor, looking for his overseer. "Williams," he screamed above the din of the machinery. The overseer was quick to arrive. "Get this bastard out of 'ere."

Stevens, bent over in pain, ran off ahead of the older Williams, out of the building and soon the whistle sounded for work to pause for the morning break.

That whole incident had taken less than ten minutes and had perhaps ruined whatever chance he may have had to become better acquainted with Miss Bryce.

John stalked from the room, frustrated again with his temper, angry that a man had the audacity to put his livelihood at risk for a quick smoke and even more disheartened to remember the look on Miss Bryce's face. Mr. Bell followed at a much more sedate pace.

Once in his disorganized office, John took a deep breath, ran his hand through his hair and handed the abnormally sedate Bell the list of properties without a word or even glance. John knew what he'd seen earlier in the older man's eyes. Disappointment. And that was far more than he could bear at the moment.

"He was smoking, Bell. I can't have that in the mill. Surely you know that." He didn't know why he felt he had to explain his actions to Bell.

"Miss Bryce and I shall choose one today," Bell told him quietly, ignoring John's explanation, as he sat in a chair across from Thornton's desk. "She'll be living with the Hales when they arrive by train tomorrow. She has never met them, but I believe their temperaments should suit. I would be surprised to learn she failed to get along with anyone, in truth…" Bell paused, probably waiting for some inane comment, but John couldn't muster anything more at the moment so he chose silence instead. "I must return to Oxford on Sunday. I would be most pleased if you would look in on these people for me and alert me if there is any need for their assistance."

"Miss Bryce seems very _special_ to you." He taunted.

"She is my _employee_. Her father and I were acquainted and since her arrival, I have taken her under my wing." He'd caught John's intimation immediately. "A beautiful, accomplished young woman and yes she is quite special to me, but not in the dishonorable way you suggest."

"I apologize, that was uncalled for." What had gotten into him suddenly? How foolish that he should speak to his landlord in such a manner.

"And well you should." Bell stood. "Work on your anger, Thornton, or it will be your demise. You had every right to be irate with your man, but violence does nothing. I doubt you feel any better this moment than that fool."

He turned away from Bell's shrewd eyes.

"I shall alert you later to which property we've chosen. Good day, Thornton."

John felt awful, disgusted with himself, angry for his behavior. But the worse realization was that he would do the same thing if given the same circumstances again. He was just a rough fellow from a northern manufacturing town, after all. He dropped heavily onto his desk chair, feeling defeated. How could he have imagined he'd be good enough for such a woman as Miss Bryce?


	4. Chapter 4

_"__What would I do without your smart mouth?  
Drawing me in, and you kicking me out  
You've got my head spinning, no kidding, I can't pin you down  
What's going on in that beautiful mind  
I'm on your magical mystery ride  
And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me, but I'll be alright_

My head's under water  
But I'm breathing fine  
You're crazy and I'm out of my mind."

_John Legend ~~All of Me~~_

The morning following what she would refer to in her brain as _the incident at the mill_, Margaret paid the hotel clerk for stay, and asked that her belongings to be sent to the new home she and Mr. Bell had chosen. She found her way to the new place and set to work on making the home inhabitable. She was excited to meet this Mr. Richard and Mrs. Maria Hale and their one faithful maid, Dixon. It would be refreshing to live with a mother and father figure, although they probably wouldn't understand or accept her independent nature. Probably. If they were friends with Adam Bell, all would be well. She knew it would. She would only be here for a short time, anyway, and having lived with roommates for years, she knew she would manage, no matter how different they might be from her.

After looking at all three vacant places on the list Mr. Thornton had given Mr. Bell the day before, they'd chosen the largest dwelling. Margaret had money she would contribute to the rent, making it affordable for their makeshift family. Knowing Margaret had nothing in the way of furniture, Bell had generously offered some left-overs he had stored in one of his warehouses right there in Milton. She'd asked for simple things- a bed, dresser and desk. Maybe a chair if he could spare one. He was pleased to do whatever she asked, reminding her several times that a day might come when she would return the favor to a fellow _traveler_.

After looking over the layout of her new home, she'd chosen the attic as her personal space. It was the full length of the house with eight windows, two facing each direction, giving the area a cheery, bright feeling. She would work on her research in the room, sleep there too of course, but she hoped to be enjoying most of her time getting to know the Hales in the common rooms.

Once they decided on the property, Mr. Bell took Margaret to meet Mrs. Wilkinson, the teacher at the school where she would begin working the following Monday. Wilkinson was stern woman of few smiles, but Margaret quickly realized the older woman and Bell had a long standing _acquaintance. _To Margaret, they seemed quite close. She believed that when Bell breezed into town it was often to spend time with Mrs. Wilkinson, a widow, with three full-grown sons. Margaret felt secure, and excited about accepting the teaching position. The wage was small, but hopefully she wouldn't be in Milton long enough to where money would become an issue. It gave her relief to know she could support herself here in Milton, perhaps even better than she had in her own time.

"Shall we go meet the Hales?" Adam asked her. He'd met her at the new home, in a section of town known as Crampton.

She smiled tentatively, nervous about meeting the couple at the train. She accepted the arm he extended her, closing the door to her home as they left.

"Did you have a nice first day in your new home?" he asked as they walked to the hired carriage awaiting them at the end of the narrow street.

"Yes! Thank you again for the furnishings, Adam." She squeezed his arm. "It all showed up so quickly after I did! I was able to arrange my area in the attic, and get the kitchen settled for the arrival of the Hales. I sure hope they like our choice."

"Well, my dear, it _was _the best of the choices," he said.

"I have to admit, Adam, I'm a wee bit nervous," she confided.

"That's certainly normal," he told her. He settled back against his seat across from her, studying her freely. "Have you lived with flat mates before?"

"I have." She nodded, while looking out the window of the carriage. She wondered how much further it was to the station, her nervousness increased with each block they passed. "Just no one much beyond my own age." She turned and smiled at him then. "I hope we get along. If you haven't noticed, Adam, I have a bit of an independent mind."

"Yes, my dear, I have noticed." He squeezed her hand and settled back into the cushion of the seat. "The Hales are very good people. I believe they shall easily accept you to their bosom."

She nodded and looked out the window again, hitting the brim of her hat on the window. She laughed. "I've never worn such a hat on my head." She laughed. "I wore beat up baseball caps when I didn't want to wash my hair for class, but nothing like this. I forget there is such a wide brim."

He laughed with her. He was very easy to be around. They hadn't yet discussed the _incident at the mill_. He seemed to understand she didn't wish to speak about it, so they simply pretended it didn't happen. It didn't effect either of them directly, and certainly not _their_ friendship, so perhaps it was best to be set aside. She'd have little reason to associate with Thornton and his bulldog temper, even if he was the hottest guy she'd ever met.

The carriage pulled up to the loading area for the train station. Adam helped her step down and being that they were a bit early for the train's arrival, he found a bench for them to sit and wait. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, and handed her a small slip of paper. "Here is a list I should give you before I forget." He tapped the side of his head. "These are the names of five other _travelers_ here in England. If you need some contacts in America, I can certainly find those for you as well." He paused. "You ought to contact these people, let them know you are here. Should anything happen to me, they will happily look after you."

"Thank you." She took the list and placed in in her newly acquired purse. The burlap pouch she'd arrived in Milton with wasn't quite fashionable enough for her taste. "But, I hope to know you for a very long time." She squeezed his hand.

"Margaret." He turned quite serious. "There will come a time, only _you _will realize when, when you must decide if you will stay here in this time, or return to your own." He turned away from her gaze, stared off in the distance. "This realization is different for everyone so I cannot even give you an idea what to expect or look for. I believe you will simply know when it is right to decide."

She remained mute, thinking that nothing could possibly keep her back in this time, without flush toilets, cell phones and hot showers. No movies, no internet, no television. Indeed, what in the world would compel her to stay here in this dirty, smoky town?

"I doubt _anything_ here could compel me to remain behind. Yesterday, when we were house hunting you mentioned movies. I have to tell you that the world is so much different even since you left. Things in technology are so beyond anything you could have imagined in the '70's."

"You speak of _things_, Margaret." He shook his head, frustrated with her. "I speak of something far more precious than possessions. Something you might find too important to leave behind." He shrugged. "You'll have to decide, my dear, but whatever you choose I shall help you."

She nods, wondering again why he so often spoke in riddles.

"Ah, here comes the train." He flips open his pocket watch. "Right to the very minute. Amazing technology, the train."

"There is something called a bullet train in Japan that travels 300 mph," she said.

He stared at her. "You jest?"

Shakes her head, eyes wide.

"Amazing." He exhaled loudly. "Do they even have horses in your time?"

"For pleasure riding only," she said.

He stood and offered her his hand. "When I come back in a few weeks you must tell me more."

"You bet!"

"Another colloquialism?"

"Yep." She nodded briskly and laughed.

"You better watch your language, young lady," he warned. "Your accent will always set you apart.

"But don't you see? That makes it more realistic. How many know the phrases I use? They'll just assume they are Americanisms."

With a swish, the train ground to a halt right next to where they stood. She'd worn one of the other dresses she'd purchased from the _Lowland Drapers_. It was such a beautiful dress, and given that she couldn't wear jeans anymore, she figured she just as well look nice. The dress was a dark green brocade, with wide trumpet sleeves. A pattern of black leaves and vines were embroidered throughout the skirt, the cinched in her waist. She wanted to make a good first impression on her new housemates. She wasn't really religious, so living with a former clergyman might be a challenge for her.

"That's them." He pointed to a middle aged couple stepping out of a train carriage several yards down the aisle. They walked forward to greet them.

Mr. Bell stepped away from Margaret to embrace his friend, Richard Hale. He then leaned forward and kissed who Margaret believed was Mrs. Hale, on both of her cheeks. Bell stepped back and quickly introduced Margaret. He had sent them an express alerting them of his idea, of sharing their new home with his research assistant, but they'd not had time to send a response.

"Ah, so this is to be our foster daughter!" Mr. Hale took her hands and squeezed them. "Maria and I have been so excited to meet you, dear! It should be lovely to have a young person in our midst."

"I'm so glad you approve," Margaret sighed with relief, her gaze darting between the couple.

"It will be a comfort to have a woman in the house," Mrs. Hale said with a gentle smile. Everything was very delicate and frail about her. "What with Richard's new occupation, he may be gone evenings tutoring." She looked toward her husband and the smile slipped away, replaced by a forlorn frown. "I don't do well alone at night."

"I hope to be a good companion for you." Margaret rested her hand on Maria's forearm, afraid she might break it, if she pressed too hard.

A stout woman with ruddy complexion waddled toward them, huffing with the strain of movement. "I've got a porter seeing to the bags, Mrs. Hale. I don't know where to tell him to go."

"I shall see to that," Bell said. "Miss Dixon, lead the way."

So that was Dixon, the Hale's maid. Margaret watched Adam follow Dixon down the walkway. A woman in a brown dress bumped into Margaret's side, drawing her attention back to the Hale's.

Mr. Hale began the conversation, talking of nothing of import, merely small talk, their trip, the weather. Margaret was immediately comfortable with them, felt as if she'd known them for some time. Mrs. Hale was obviously exhausted. She couldn't be much beyond fifty, with a perfect pale complexion, small, deep set eyes and a very petite, delicate body.

Mr. Hale was not much taller than Margaret, perhaps just above her five and a half feet. He was paunchy, the figure of a man who spent more time sitting and reading than laboring with his hands. He had bushy eyebrows and equally bushy sideburns in an odd shade of gray that had clearly once been blond. Unlike his wife, his eyes were wide and expressive, and his face was wrinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Were the wrinkles from laugh or worry?

Mr. Bell came back to them after only a few minutes and guided them to an awaiting cab. Margaret was introduced immediately to Dixon, and the five of them squeezed into the hired carriage to ride the short distance to their new home.

"Our furniture is all crated up." Mr. Hale said.

"I don't look forward to unpacking," Maria added quietly.

"I'll be glad to help you." Margaret offered. "Have you moved often?"

"No," Maria answered. "We lived in London after we first married and then at Helstone in the New Forest ever since. It's almost thirty years." The last bit came out as a hushed whisper.

Margaret felt Mrs. Hale didn't want this move, but her husband had sought a new occupation, a new start, it seemed. Margaret would try to help the woman as much as she could. It was obvious she needed support.

"I'll be happy to help set things up with you." Margaret waved absently into the air. "I've moved many times."

She looked at Adam to see how far she could explain. He smiled and nodded his approval.

"I moved to England from America three years ago. Of course I brought almost nothing with me. Just clothing, and personal items and far too many books." She laughed at that. "Mr. Bell was kind enough to let me borrow some of his furniture from storage here in Milton."

"Do you plan to stay a long time, Margaret?" Mrs. Hale asked her.

"Oh, I don't know yet." She sighed and looked out the window into the cloudy sky. "I suppose it will depend on how well my research comes together." She wasn't ready to tell them about her time traveling. Adam hadn't told them, either, suggesting she share it only when she felt ready to do so.

"I think we shall all get along fine." Mr. Hale patted her hand in a fatherly manner. Margaret had a feeling he always looked at the bright side of everything. "Do you read the classics? Aristotle? Homer? Plato?"

"I have," she said, "but not for many years and perhaps not as in depth as I should have." She sighed. "I like novels. Biographies and books on history."

"What of languages?" Mr. Hale asked.

"Well, I can speak Spanish, a little German, a little French and a little Italian." Margaret laughed. "Nothing fluently, but enough to get by in America."

"Latin and Greek?" he continued. She couldn't miss the hopeful tone of his voice.

"No, I'm afraid not." She shook her head, frowning at him. "Not at all." Except the Greek letters decorating the outside walls of fraternities and sororities at school. Those she could pick out.

"Well, that's alright. Perhaps we could choose something to read together, the three of us?" Mr. Hale glanced from Margaret to his wife, who nodded, and then back to Margaret.

"That might be fun." She smiled, hoping to appease him. No television, no movies, no internet. Yeah, there was always reading.

"What do you hope to teach, Mr. Hale?" she asked.

"You must call me Richard, my dear." He reminded her of what a grandfather might be like, although in truth he was only old enough to be her father. "I will teach whatever needs taught. I am good in any number of subjects, so depending on the need, I should be able to fulfill it."

They pulled up in front of the home she and Bell had chosen. Margaret was anxious to see their reaction. In fact she was holding her breath, hoping they would be pleased.

Dixon was the first down, followed by Mr. Bell who helped down Maria and Margaret.

"Well, I hope you like it," Margaret said. She looked up at the building, and then smiled at the couple. "The choices were limited."

The next day was their first Sunday in Milton.

Mr. Bell left for Oxford on the first train out of Milton. Maria was still too over-wrought from the move, and unpacking, and getting settled in, to go to the services, so Margaret agreed to go to church with Richard Hale.

Margaret hadn't been in a church since a friend got married back in America, almost four years earlier. She didn't have a strong faith background, her mother never spoke about God, and there were no other people in her life that introduced her to any holy beliefs.

She knew there was a higher power, there simply had to be, but she had never read the Bible, had learned of biblical stories only in the context of the history which she studied at school. Attending church with a former vicar would be an experience, one that would add to her understanding of the flavor of the society of Milton. It was simply expected that those of the upper crust would attend weekly services, _to see and be seen_, and as Margaret wished to mingle among people of all classes, she needed to find her footing among the powers that "be" in Milton. How else could she most clearly understand the class distinctions?

Their new home in Crampton was close to the church, and since they didn't own a carriage, walking was the only option. She enjoyed listening to Richard discuss his opinion of the city in which they found themselves. His views were often quite different from hers, or sometimes he came at a topic from a completely different angle than she did. No matter the subject, they usually ended up in a compromise, despite being very different people, from extraordinarily different backgrounds.

Margaret and Mr. Hale entered the darkened church, and after a few moments her eyes adjusted well enough to follow Richard up the aisle, to a pew toward the front of the church. Looking around, Margaret was surprised to see the Thornton family in the front pew, as if they owned the joint. She recognized John and Fanny immediately, but there was another, much older, stern looking woman sitting next to Fanny, dressed in somber, black mourning attire. Was that their mother? If so, how long had John's father been gone? Her heart softened toward him somewhat at the thought of him only recently losing his father.

The service began with music, and the preacher leading them through the Christian ritual. She aped whatever Richard did and said, hoping her ignorance was not blatantly obvious. Margaret studied John, or at least the back of his head, throughout service. She struggled to reconcile the Christian behavior he displayed now while singing in such a deep, expressive baritone voice, with the violent actions she witnessed from him at his mill only days earlier.

Occasionally, she caught sight of his profile as his head turned ever so slightly. She found herself agreeing with her initial assessment of him. He was _not_ handsome, at least in a classical sense, but there was something about his body's movements, the confidence with which he carried himself that drew her in. Charismatic swagger? Or maybe just plain arrogance? She couldn't pin down just what it was. She supposed he was entitled to a little of both, given his power and prestige in this dirty, smoky, industrial town. She couldn't see his eyes as he was looking ahead toward the pulpit, but she knew they were gorgeous, clear blue like the waters of the Caribbean. If he only didn't seem to have a perpetual scowl….

As Margaret and Richard left the church, they stopped to meet the vicar. She tried to move Richard along, desperately hoping they would be able to escape being noticed by the Thorntons. But alas, freedom was not to be found. She knew she must be grateful for John's help in securing the home they were still settling into, but frankly, Thornton intimidated her. His mother, if that was indeed who the older woman was, hadn't smiled through the whole service, even now when the preacher was making a special effort to give her attention she stood indifferent. What a disagreeable family!

"Miss Bryce! Fancy seeing you here today." Fanny, of course, in her inane way of speaking had drawn attention to her. She caught them at the bottom of the stairs, just as they were telling the vicar goodbye, just inches from escape.

"Hello, Miss Thornton." Margaret plastered a smile on her face and turned to greet the other woman. Richard remained by her side.

"Mr. Richard Hale, may I introduce Miss Frances Thornton?" They awkwardly bowed their heads to each other. Fanny made an awkward curtsy.

"Ah, here are Mother and John." Fanny tilted her head toward her family. So, the older woman _was_ their mother, and clearly John's scowl had been inherited from her.

"Good day, Miss Bryce." Ah, naughty things in the dark. Yep, that's what his voice could get her to do. How had no other woman snatched him up yet? Oh yeah, he was abusive and had a horrible temper.

"Mr. Thornton." She nodded toward him. "May I introduce you to my house mate, Mr. Richard Hale? Mr. Hale this is the man," she almost said gentleman, but realized that as Adam had explained, in terms of society at this time, Mr. Thornton could not be called such, "who we owe much thanks to for finding us such a perfect home in Milton."

They shook hands.

"You're settling in well?" Thornton politely asked Richard, his attention completely, and appropriately on the elder man.

"_I_ am, yes," Richard answered. Margaret knew there was more Richard had to say on the matter, but doubted he would open his heart to this Milton manufacturer. Maria was struggling to accept their fate in Milton.

"Mr. Bell tells me you are a tutor of classics and languages," Thornton continued. "Do you school only _young_ men?"

"I can't be choosy just yet, Mr. Thornton." Richard smiled easily. "I would be well pleased to study with anyone with an inclination for learning."

"I'm glad to hear that, Mr. Hale." Thornton shifted his weight between feet. "You see, I had studied the classics until I was about sixteen." Margaret could sense a certain nervous excitement about Thornton as he spoke with Richard. "I would be interested in picking up where I left off. I imagine I am a bit out of practice," he grinned. "But, perhaps if you were willing… that is… perhaps I could come and read with you an evening or two a week? Start with Latin and some book you find appropriate?" _Well color me shocked. The man wasn't perfect? And he even knew it? Remarkable!_

"Why yes, I believe that would be quite acceptable." Richard looked happy, and a bit relieved even. He'd confided in Margaret on their walk to church that morning he wasn't certain where he would find students. It seemed he'd just managed to secure his first.

"I can't imagine anyone studying for pleasure," Fanny sniffed.

Margaret met the sharp gaze of Thornton as she opened her mouth to answer the airhead, who had just criticized not only her brother, but Margaret as well. She quickly closed her jaw, understanding Thornton's silent, wide-eyed gaze as a plea to let his sister's comment pass. Why Margaret complied, she couldn't say, but getting an appreciative nod from Thornton made her feel she'd done the right thing. Anything she said would have been argumentative and pointless. She wouldn't be able to change Fanny's opinion any more easily than Fanny could change hers.

As if remembering his mother was there as well, Thornton introduced her to them. "Mother, please meet Mr. Richard Hale and Miss Margaret Bryce. Mr. Hale and his wife have come from the south. He is to be a tutor here in Milton. Miss Bryce is working for Mr. Bell doing some research on social classes in Milton."

She curtly tipped her head in greeting, and then blurted, "What have we a need for tutors in Milton?" Margaret was taken aback by her blunt manner, especially having just met Mr. Hale. How dare she have the audacity to criticize his work!

"_If a man neglects his education, he walks lame to the end of his life_," Richard quoted. _Boy he was a glass half full kinda guy. _"That was Plato." He smiled kindly at the older woman who simply turned up the edge of her lip in what looked like a sneer.

"There are different sorts of education," Mrs. Thornton continued. She looked like a hag, really, a grouchy old bag, dressed all in black. "My son needs business knowledge, not the classics."

"Mother, perhaps we can discuss this at a later time?" Thornton interrupted, his eyes resting on Margaret, not the older woman.

She was amused by the flush of embarrassment that crossed Thornton's cheeks. He was a mamma's boy! How interesting. She looked away from his intense stare and noticed the glare Mrs. Thornton was giving her. It seemed Margaret was not a favorite among any of the Thorntons.

Mrs. Thornton huffed at her son, but didn't speak further. Was she as much of an idiot as her daughter? Something told Margaret this woman's influence on her son was great, and her good opinion difficult to obtain.

"Mr. Hale, we should be going," Margaret suggested. There was a distinct chill in the air surrounding their little group.

"Yes, of course!" Richard quickly agreed and began to stroll toward the street that would lead them to Crampton. "We've left my wife, Maria, at home," he explained to Mrs. Thornton. "The move and settling in has tired her greatly."

That was an understatement. In fact, Maria had been a virtual fountain of tears since their arrival. Margaret had never seen anyone cry so much without being in physical pain or having someone quite close die. It had been a difficult few days at the house in Crampton.

"You arrived on Friday evening?" Mr. Thornton asked Richard.

"Yes. Maria and I, along with her maid." Richard paused. "Adam Bell and Margaret were there at the station to greet us. I might say Milton is very different from where we come. Maria wasn't quite prepared for what we have found here."

"Perhaps you would like to join us for lunch today?" Mrs. Thornton quickly suggested. What in the world? Margaret never saw that coming. She would have to stay on her toes around this family. "All three of you are welcome, of course. We could see you home to fetch your wife, Mr. Hale, and have the carriage bring you to our house at the mill?"

Richard looked at Margaret for confirmation. It was about the last thing she wanted to do, but knew Mr. Hale had to make acquaintances to make contacts for more pupils, so she reluctantly nodded.

"Thank you, Mrs. Thornton. We will be glad to accept. We have but one servant at the moment and she is feeling as overwhelmed as we are. Not having to prepare a meal will be welcomed by her." Richard smiled with true gratitude.

Mrs. Thornton nodded stiffly and motioned to her left. "Our carriage is just over here."

Fanny put her arm through Margaret's and led the way. "You know, you have lovely taste for a girl from the south. This is yet another fine dress."

"Thank you, Miss Thornton." Margaret looked at Fanny. "Have you met many women from the south?"

"Well, no, but I have heard they are awfully backwards."

"In what way?" Margaret was curious, not having met anyone from the south yet. How would they differ?

"Why… slow and old fashioned." Fanny shrugged. "But, clearly you are not."

"Thank you, but you see, Miss Thornton, I'm not really from the south." Margaret's lips twitched in humor. "I've been in Oxford for several years, but I am originally from America."

"America!" She pulled hard on Margaret's arm, stopping her cold. "Ah ha! That explains your accent."

"Yes."

They resumed walking and soon Fanny was babbling on again. "Have you a beau, Miss Bryce?"

Margaret was well aware of John walking closely behind them. He could surely hear their conversation.

"Not right now, no." Margaret wouldn't elaborate.

Fanny hooted. "Have you had so many that you're taking a break?"

"Well, you know… girls from the south…" she left that hang in the air. She had no idea if southern girls had such a reputation or not, but she did know she had no interest in adding to the gossip Fanny could pass throughout Milton.

Margaret had to figure out how to bow out of lunch. She had no interest in dodging glares and stares from the Thorntons, or answering Fanny's silly questions. The Hales could go enjoy the company, she would stay behind and read, or pluck her eyebrows. Anything would be more relaxing than an afternoon visiting the Thornton home.

All five of them piled into the Thornton carriage. Margaret was stuck in the middle of the carriage seat, with Richard on one side and Fanny on the other. Mother Thornton and son sat across the way. She looked out the window, but was well aware of John's steady gaze on her. She had a feeling that if she showed even the smallest amount of interest, he would pounce on her like a cat. She decided there could be worse things, but geez that temper of his! He'd scared the crap out of her at the mill, and it would be a long time before she forgot the sheer hated and anger she'd seen from him.

As the horse ambled toward the Crampton dwelling, Mr. Hale and Mrs. Thornton spoke of the weather, the open markets and the best places to shop. Margaret took mental notes, although she didn't know if they could afford to shop where the Thorntons did. At least she would have an idea where to go.

When they reached the rented home, Richard stepped out and then reached up to help Margaret down.

"We shall send the carriage back for you in an hour if you think that sufficient time?" Mrs. Thornton offered.

"Yes, of course," Mr. Hale said. "I am certain Maria will be ready."

Margaret said goodbye to the riders and walked away, climbing the short staircase that led into their three story townhouse without a look back. Dixon was quick to open the door, as if she'd been waiting for them.

"Mrs. Hale is in the drawing room, Miss Bryce."

"Thank you, Dixon." Margaret handed off her gloves, hat and coat before moving to join Maria.

This was the first room they arranged together. It was cozy, with pillows and throws decorating the sofa and chairs near the fireplace. It was a small room, but sizable enough to fit the few people that lived at Crampton. Margaret was pleased how it turned out.

"We are to join the Thorntons for lunch today, Maria," Margaret told her as she sat on the sofa across from the older lady.

"Thornton?" Maria's brow scrunched in thought. "Why do I recognize that name?"

"It was John Thornton that located this property for us." Richard told his wife as he strolled into the room. "He is the Master of Marlborough Mills, one of the largest cotton mills here in Milton. He lives there with his widowed mother, Hannah, and sister Frances."

"I see," was Maria's simple answer.

"He has also expressed an interest in reading with me a few times a week," Richard explained further. Margaret could see his excitement, and was pleased for him.

"Is he not too old to need a tutor?" Maria asked, her voice just on the edge of being shrill.

"Mr. Thornton is somewhere in his mid- thirties, I think," Margaret answered calmly for Richard, who stood speechless. "He told Richard he stopped his education when he was sixteen."

"And he wishes to resume?" This time, her voice was piercing.

"It would seem so, yes," Margaret answered again, this time with a tentative smile. She'd learned to apply Richard's optimism when dealing with Maria. "I believe Mr. Thornton is a powerful man here in Milton, Maria. It would do Richard well to make such contacts."

"I suppose we must go then?" She sounded a bit panicked. "To lunch? Luncheon in Milton." Now the voice turned shocked and surprised. "At a mill? Oh Richard, how far have I fallen?" Maria broke into tears, and Margaret quickly excused herself, realizing this was a private moment between husband and wife. No matter what reassuring words could be uttered by Margaret, they wouldn't be enough to calm the woman.


	5. Chapter 5

_"__All I knew this morning when I woke  
Is I know something now, know something now I didn't before.  
And all I've seen since eighteen hours ago  
Is green eyes and freckles and your smile  
In the back of my mind making me feel like…_

I just wanna know you better, know you better, know you better now…

_'Cause all I know is we said, 'Hello.'  
And your eyes look like coming home  
All I know is a simple name  
Everything has changed  
All I know is you held the door  
You'll be mine and I'll be yours…_

_And all I feel in my stomach is butterflies  
The beautiful kind, making up for lost time,  
Taking flight, making me feel right like…_

I just wanna know you better, know you better, know you better now…"

_Taylor Swift ~~Everything has Changed~~_

John Thornton paced in front of the windows of his mill house, waiting for sight or sound of his carriage returning with the Hales and Miss Bryce. The uncommon, bright sunlight streaming inside almost made up for the chaotic flying butterflies dancing in his stomach.

"John what has you so anxious?" His mother entered the sitting room, and sat on her usual chair. "Surely these Hales are not the reason?"

"I can't say, mother." He glanced at her and then back out the window. "I feel some nervous energy this afternoon."

He knew his mother was right about what was troubling him, but he was not liable to admit it. This feeling was too foreign, too fresh for him to express in words, even to his dear mother. It wasn't the Hales that had him on edge, though. It was Margaret Bryce.

"Perhaps a walk after lunch would help?" she suggested. From the corner of his eye he saw her pick up her embroidery and begin to stitch. Usually watching his mother's fingers work the rhythmic stitches in and out of the fabric was enough to calm his nerves. Not today. "The sun is finally shining," she continued. "I don't imagine these Hales will dawdle. It would be a fine day for a walk about town."

He nodded, still staring out the window. "It was good of you to invite them today." He said it quietly.

"It seemed… necessary," she answered.

"Necessary?" What an odd choice of words. He turned from the window to face the family matriarch, whose attention was fully focused on her stitching. "Why did you invite them, mother?" he asked. "You do not enjoy socializing with strangers."

She scoffed. "Ach John, it was quite plain you wished to be longer in Miss Bryce's company, and obviously _you_ couldn't invite her to lunch."

"Mother," he warned with a frown.

"I believe I am ready to have grandchildren," she stated, setting aside her embroidery on her lap.

"Mother!" John exclaimed.

"Need I remind you that you are four and thirty? In all that time, I have never witnessed your interest in a woman until now," she continued. "How many girls has Fanny paraded in front of you over the past few years? Literally dozens. Beautiful, accomplished girls who you didn't give a second glance, yet this employee of Mr. Bell's has you in a tizzy of nerves and uncertainty."

"Is it so obvious?" He smirked with a sigh.

"To me, yes," she said. "Perhaps to Fanny as well. I was shocked when she asked Miss Bryce if she had a suitor! I was about to chastise her for being so impertinent, until I realized I wanted to know the answer, too!" She stood and joined him at the window. She reached up to adjust his dark cravat. "I know you so well." She rested her hands on the lapels of his coat. "This behavior is as much unnerving to me as it appears to be to you." She swallowed and looked down. He watched his mother's face grow serious. "For years, I've dreaded the need to share your attentions with a woman of your choosing. Now being faced with it, I find myself…unprepared. But, your happiness is all that matters to me, son. You must know that."

"I first met Miss Bryce at the concert this past week," he told her quietly. There was no need to argue his attraction with his mother. She _did_ know him better than anyone else. "She came with Mr. Bell that evening. I'm surprised Fanny didn't mention it, she was taken with Miss Bryce as well, I believe."

"Oh, she did." His mother admitted. She stepped back. "In fact, she was _quite_ vocal about Miss Bryce the day after that concert."

"What did she say?" He was giving away his interest in Miss Bryce, he was certain, but he wished to know all that his mother did.

Her lips twitched up in a gentle smile. "Perhaps you should tell me yourself. What is it about this woman that has attracted you when so many women, equally lovely, have not?"

Equally lovely? Was she joking? No one compared to the beauty of Miss Bryce. He shrugged to cover his discomfort, and then glanced back out the window. "There is something quite unique about this particular woman."

"You've met her just the once? At the concert?" his mother asked.

"No." He shook his head. "Bell brought her to the mill the day I sacked Stephens. She saw the whole ugly scene. I fear that my display of anger may have pounded a nail in my coffin where she is concerned."

"Give her time," his mother argued. "She will come to see your worth."

He snorted, but smiled. "She'll not have me, mother."

"She's not from here, could not possibly understand the significance and danger from a fire in a mill as we do. She doesn't have the experience." She rested her hand on his upper arm, and then glanced out the window. "They are here." She pointed to the carriage now visible outside the window.

He quickly moved from his viewing perch, unwilling for Miss Bryce to see him waiting for her. He sat in a chair near the fireplace where he picked up the latest paper, hoping he appeared less flustered than he felt. His mother joined him sitting near the fireplace, again on her favorite chair. He glanced from his paper as Fanny breezed in the minute the doorbell rang. She sat hurriedly on the sofa, and arranged her skirts just so.

Their maid, Jane, announced the arrival of the Hales and Miss Bryce, and immediately the invited trio walked into the drawing room. John's attention was immediately drawn to Miss Bryce, delighted she was in his home, thrilled by the look of admiration that crossed her face as she openly surveyed the drawing room.

"Welcome to our home," his mother greeted the guests, standing as the three guests waked in the room. "You must be Mrs. Hale," she continued, walking toward the woman clinging to Mr. Hale's arm. "I'm very glad you could join us."

"I thank you for the invitation," Mrs. Hale answered. Lord, she was a frail little lady. She looked older than what John had expected, and so very petite and weak. He feared a brisk wind might be enough to blow her over.

"This is my son John," his mother told Mrs. Hale, "and my daughter Fanny."

John walked forward and bowed slightly. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Hale." He smiled, hoping it would soften his countenance. He was told repeatedly by Fanny how intimidating he could be. "Your husband has agreed to read with me. I must say I have been looking forward to this since Mr. Bell mentioned your arrival in Milton."

"Yes, my husband told me of these plans." She didn't quite meet his eyes and her eyelashes seemed to flutter an excessive amount. Why would she be nervous to meet them? Maybe she was just scared of him? He stepped back, hoping space would make her more comfortable.

The maid came in and told Mrs. Thornton lunch was ready.

"Shall we go in?" Mrs. Thornton suggested. As his mother led them from the room, Fanny was quick to grab Miss Bryce's arm and pull her along into the dining room.

"What a beautiful home, Mrs. Thornton," Miss Bryce said as she looked around the spacious room, a genuine smile on her face.

John was very proud of the home he provided for his mother and sister. It was a symbol of his hard work over the past nearly twenty years since his father's passing. It pleased him more than he expected that Miss Bryce found beauty in his home. The table was fully set with their food, he noticed Jane had set out the fine china. Had she done so at his mother's request?

"Thank you." His mother answered. "All the furnishings were built and fashioned here in Milton. Our manufacturers are capable of competing with the best available in any other place in the world." The pride was obvious in her tone. She'd lived here her whole life, had never experienced anything different.

His mother sat at the head of the table. John pulled out the chair for Miss Bryce, catching a scent of something flowery as she sat. After Mrs. Hale and Fanny were seated, he sat himself in his usual spot opposite his mother.

"Your table setting is beautiful, quite similar to the one we used on more formal occasions," Mrs. Hale complimented Mrs. Thornton. "Mr. Hale would often entertain parishioners with meals."

John watched the interaction between the married couple. It was obvious there was true affection for one another. He glanced at Miss Bryce, enjoying her profile as she, too, watched the Hales interact with his mother.

"Why is it you have moved from… Where is it that you come from?" His mother's brow was furrowed. John hadn't told her where they were from. He knew the name of the town, but not why they chose to abscond to the north.

John watched a look of discomfort cut across Miss Bryce's face at his mother's question. He had been curious about the same question, but didn't feel it was time yet to ask Mr. Hale. From Miss Bryce's reaction, he understood his mother should have waited a bit longer, until they were better acquainted.

"Helstone," Mrs. Hale answered, a catch in her throat. "It's two hours south of London by rail."

"You lived there for some time?" John asked gently. The woman was so frail, she required the kid glove treatment. He tried to concentrate more on his meal than on Miss Bryce, although it was a struggle. He liked the way she held herself, how expressive her face and eyes were.

"Indeed," Mr. Hale answered for his wife. "Over a quarter century." He'd almost forgotten what he'd asked the couple.

Miss Bryce was looked fondly at the older couple. He knew from Bell that they were not previously acquainted, but they seemed to be getting along quite well. She wasn't eating much, or speaking much. Could she be as nervous as he was?

"And your move was necessary?" Mrs. Thornton continued on, despite the discomfort on the faces of the Hales.

"I found myself disagreeing with some church teachings, and in doing so could no longer minister the word of the Lord without sacrificing my principles." Mr. Hale told her bluntly.

Seeing his mother speechless was priceless. She really had nothing to say to that explanation. Mrs. Hale wouldn't look up from her plate. He caught Miss Bryce's eye encouraging him with her expression to help overcome the uncomfortable silence. He understood immediately her silent entreaty, and shifted his attention from her, where it seemed to be settled for perhaps too long already, to Mrs. Hale.

"Your home here is acceptable, Mrs. Hale?" he asked. Margaret's posture immediately relaxed.

"Yes," Mrs. Hale looked up to him with a small smile. "I wish to thank you for the kindness shown in securing it for us."

"It was my pleasure. You must know Mr. Bell and I are close associates." He glanced at Miss Bryce as he chewed his lunch. "I find I can rarely refuse his requests."

When she smiled at him, his heart thudded to a complete stop. Oh, she was beautiful.

"Have you settled in, Mrs. Hale? Are you in need of anything that I could be of help with?" Mrs. Thornton asked, drawing his focus back to his mother. Perhaps she understood she'd placed the family in an uncomfortable position?

"It's a slow process. Margaret has been a great help. Indeed without her, I don't think we would be able to sleep there even yet." Mrs. Hale smiled at Margaret gently. "She had the kitchen ready before we even arrived, and her quarters as well. I believe we should have all finished within the week."

"Do you cook for the family, too, Miss Bryce?" Fanny asked. John glanced at her sharply.

"No, I do not." He watched as Margaret tipped her chin up and looked Fanny in the eye. "The Hales have brought a housekeeper with them, and I am able to benefit from her cooking and cleaning." He was pleased Miss Bryce remained civil, despite his sister's attempts at ridicule. She returned her gaze to her food and continued to pick at the potatoes and beef on her plate.

"Miss Bryce, you have been here for a bit longer than the Hales," his mother said before swallowing a sip of tea. "How do _you_ find Milton?"

He watched her gaze move again to the other end of the table, and settle upon his mother. This was the first direct conversation his mother invited Miss Bryce to participate in. He steeled himself for what her answer would be. He hoped his behavior hadn't made her hate Milton. Or him.

"I've only just arrived myself, Mrs. Thornton. It's surely a different environment from what I am accustomed to." She glanced at John. He understood what her eyes were telling him. She'd never seen the violence she'd seen from him. "I believe Mr. Thornton made good selections for us in terms of living arrangements." She nodded toward him, in thanks, and then looked back to his mother. "I enjoyed the concert I attended with Mr. Bell and have liked the people I've met. All in all, my opinion of Milton is favorable so far."

His mother looked at him, pointedly, and then turned back to Miss Bryce. "You are here to do research for Mr. Bell?"

"Yes." Miss Bryce folded her napkin next to her plate and leaned back against her chair. "He has asked that I write some papers for him. Next term he will be teaching a course on the class inequalities in industrial towns. He wishes to understand more specifically how industry has created a disparity between the wealthy and the poor."

"Miss Bryce you sound a bit like a bluestocking!" Fanny blurted.

"I suppose I am, Miss Thornton." Miss Bryce admitted. There was no apology in her admission. Indeed, John sensed some pride in her answer. "I think an education, for anyone, man or woman, rich or poor, is invaluable.

"How revolutionary! I suppose you think women deserve the vote then, too? Along with the poor?" Fanny snorted and shook her head.

"I can speak only for myself, Miss Thornton, not all women." Miss Bryce paused to calmly take a sip of her tea.

"Mrs. Thornton," Mrs. Hale cut in, "might you and Miss Thornton like to come for tea this week? Margaret do you think perhaps by Friday we would be ready to receive company?"

"I'm sorry to say we have an engagement already scheduled for this Friday." His mother answered a bit too quickly. He didn't keep track of her daily activities, so it was possible she had plans. She rarely socialized, though. She preferred to be home or at the mill to anywhere else. "Perhaps Monday next?"

"Yes, that would be fine." Mrs. Hale nodded, a rather blank expression on her face.

"Mr. Thornton, perhaps this Thursday would suit you to begin our studies?" Mr. Hale suggested, as he threw Miss Bryce a questioning glance. Her eyes widened a fraction and after a few heartbeats, she nodded to Mr. Hale.

Catching her slight nod, John decided to accept. "Thursday would be most agreeable." He didn't want to be in Miss Bryce's home, unless she willed it.

"Latin and Plato it is." Mr. Hale's joy was evident in his smile and it made Miss Bryce smile in response. She glanced at John, but he looked away quickly, not wishing to be caught staring at her again.

Fanny snorted and looked to her mother. John saw the warning look Mrs. Thornton gave the girl, but it wasn't sufficient to keep her mouth shut.

"John what have you need to know such useless information?" Fanny asked. "Plato and Latin?"

"Fanny!" Mrs. Thornton scolded. "Your brother works very hard day in and out to make Marlborough Mills the most successful in all of Milton. If he chooses to engage in such activities in his leisure time, it is not for you to judge."

This pronouncement despite her earlier similar criticism outside of the church. Why had his mother changed her opinion?

"I can never express my opinions in this house." She stood, shoving her chair back and slamming down her napkin. "And John," she pointed straight at him, "can do no wrong in your eyes." She huffed again, stuck her nose in the air and left the room.

Miss Bryce looked down at her plate, biting her lip. John was certain she was hiding a laugh. He frowned at his sister's tantrum. She's been spoiled all her life. Even when times were the hardest, Fanny never knew deprivation. She was now a brat, as this outburst illustrated. His mother's face looked thunderous, a combination between utter embarrassment and fierce anger.

Mr. Hale quickly broke the awkward silence. "We should be going, Mrs. Thornton." They had been finished with lunch for several minutes. He stood and helped his wife find her feet.

Miss Bryce stood after John did. "Thank you for the fine lunch, Mrs. Thornton."

His mother nodded brusquely. "You're very welcome, Miss Bryce. I am glad to know you better." Not one given to pretty speeches, he thought that was nicely said.

"I'll be looking forward to your visit on Thursday evening, Mr. Thornton." Mr. Hale shook his hand. Mrs. Hale expressed her gratitude again as they walked out the front door of the house at the mill.

"Good bye, Mrs. Thornton." Miss Bryce reached out and shook the older woman's hand. "Mr. Thornton." He took her hand and squeezed it gently. He wasn't smiling at her, his mother would certainly read into such an expression, but Miss Bryce had a smile for him before she turned her back to him and joined the Hales who were waiting just outside the door.

His mother stood with him at the door, seeing the Hales and Miss Bryce off, watching them climb into their carriage and then drive away. He closed the door and followed her up the staircase.

"She's a fine lady, with grace and class, John," she called over her shoulder. "I must say I was impressed by her pretty speech. She defended her ideals when your silly sister attempted to challenge her without becoming defensive or discourteous. She may well prove to be worthy of you."

He huffed. Prove to be worthy of _him_? Surely his mother could see it was the opposite? When they reached the landing he stopped, and she turned back to look up at him. "Did you sense any special regard, Mother?"

"Toward you?" She looked up at him.

"No, mother, toward the maid." John rolled his eyes. "This is difficult enough for me. I have no experience in these matters. No man to speak with, save for Mr. Bell or the idiot Watson. They would both surely laugh at my naivety." Frustration tainted his speech. Could she not see how hard this was for him?

"I'm sorry." She set her hand on his arm. "I wasn't poking fun."

"It doesn't matter." He shook his head. "She'd never have me." He clenched his jaw, knowing he spoke the truth, however painful. She'd seen him at his worst, and he knew not how he could ever overcome that impression. Surely it was stuck forcefully in her mind. Her demeanor at the table hinted at her discomfort at being in his company.

"You said that earlier, but I believe you may be wrong about Miss Bryce." She shook her head and sighed. "Have you had the chance to speak with her at any great length or is it just her beauty that attracts you?"

"I spoke with her at the concert, but not enough to form a solid opinion. The Hales clearly like her." He tipped his head to the side and smirked. "She is perhaps a bit more revolutionary in her thoughts than I am used to from women. Not that I've had the opportunity or inclination to speak of such topics with women." He sighed deeply, and ran a hand through his hair, frustrated by these foreign feelings bouncing around inside of himself. "All I know is I should like to get to know her better. For now, I shall admit only that she is the handsomest woman of my acquaintance, with a presence about her that intrigues me."

"I can accept that," his mother said with a firm nod. "She is very pretty. She has a certain grace about her that is very pleasing. She is rather short for you, but that can hardly be helped." She waved at the air. "If you begin to become enchanted with more than her beauty, you must let me know."

"You might be the very first. Indeed you may realize it before I do." He laughed at that. "I will go read the awful news in the paper and then head to the mill and work on the dreaded ledgers. I do think it's time I hired someone to work on the books."

"Hire a bookkeeper, then. If it will ease some anxiety, it will be well worth it."

"I shall consider it, but for now, it must be my fumbling with the figures." He kissed her cheek and went to his room to change from his Sunday best to his daily gear. "You must speak with Fanny, Mother. She cannot behave in such a way in front of guests. No matter who we entertain."

"I shall do that right now."

How would he get Miss Bryce to speak freely with him? It was difficult surrounded by people and in the public all the time. Perhaps when he came to their house on Thursday they would have an opportunity to discuss something. But, what could they talk about? He pondered that thought for a long time before he was subjected to his sister's _torture by piano_.


	6. Chapter 6

_"'__May I ask you what these questions tend?'  
'Merely to the illustration of your character,' said she, endeavoring to shake off her gravity. 'I am trying to make it out.'  
'And what is your success?'  
She shook her head. 'I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly.'_

_'__I can readily believe,' answered he gravely, 'that reports may vary greatly with respect to me, and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either.'_

_'__But if I do not take your likeness now, I may not have another opportunity.'_

_'__I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours,' he replied coldly. She said no more and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy's breast there was a powerful tolerable feeling towards her…'_

_Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice, chapter 18_

Thursday dawned with several inches of fluffy snow on the ground. Margaret had arranged with Mrs. Wilkinson during their first meeting with Mr. Bell that on days such as this, she would not come to school. Having run the school alone for so long, Mrs. Wilkinson readily agreed, pleased to have someone to help bear the burden of educating her students. Today, Margaret would not go to the school. She gave herself a snow day, something she cherished as a child growing up during cold Chicago winters. Margaret wished she could simply telephone the woman and tell her she wouldn't be in, but of course that was impossible.

She went downstairs to tell Dixon she would not need her early breakfast and then gratefully crawled back into her warm bed to wait until the Hales woke up. The house wasn't big enough to muffle noises and she would hate to wake them up with her cleaning and organizing.

She felt as if she'd been training for a marathon this week. She knew she'd already lost a bit of weight from the six miles she'd walked each of the past three days. It wasn't horrible, she told herself, it was helping children learn, it was helping her stay in shape and even more importantly, she was gaining better insight into the lives of the people she was back in this time to learn about.

Monday, on her way home from school, she'd met a woman named Bessy Higgins. It had been a comical meeting. Bessy had rushed up the hill looking down at the ground, while Margaret was descending the hill, also looking down, avoiding the winds. Feeling mentally and physically exhausted after her first day at the school, Margaret wasn't paying attention and then suddenly they collided hard, both of them landing soundly on their butts. Mortified, Margaret got up to help the lady, who was laughing instead of crying. Margaret soon laughed, too, and after a few moments of awkwardness they spoke to each other.

It turned out Bessy worked at Marlborough Mills, and had seen _the incident_ the week before. As they were chatting, a rough, grungy man, dirty from work, walked up to Bessy. At first Margaret thought it might be her husband, but as he neared, she realized he was too old to be anything other than father. He introduced himself as Nicholas Higgins. Bessy reminded him about the conversation the two shared about Margaret being at the mill, witnessing Stephens getting roughed up and sacked by the Master.

Nicholas had tipped his chin up, and answered forcefully, "Stephens got his just deserves. Idiot could have put the whole mill down. Not only Thornton would suffer but the hundreds that work for him, too."

Margaret liked his thick, Darkshire accent. He was a smoker, if his gruff voice was any indication. Grungy in appearance, he carried himself with a certain amount of pride.

"Isn't there a less violent solution?" Margaret had asked.

"He could have caused the death of hundreds just with a spark from that pipe. Selfish fool got off easy, I reckon. Let's be going, Lass." He reached for Bessy's hand and they began to move away. "Good day, Miss," Nicholas had tipped his cap, something Margaret had witnessed man men do in Milton as a way of greeting.

"Wait!" she'd rushed after them. "Where do you live? That is, I have only just come to Milton, I would like to know you better." She looked at Bessy as she said this.

Nicholas answered, "We put-up in Princeton district, behind the Golden Dragon. You'd be welcome to visit, Miss. But you won't." He smirked as if he knew a secret. "Fine people as yourself don't spend time with common folk like me and mine."

Margaret had watched them walk the opposite direction, and then when their forms were no longer visible, she herself turned back on the path toward Crampton, where the Hale were awaiting her arrival.

If only to prove Nicholas wrong, Margaret did stop yesterday, after school to visit Bessy. Their home was very small, cozy and clean, just enough space for the two daughters and Nicholas. Bessy was surprised to see her for tea, but pleased. Mary, her younger sister, was very quiet, rather shy, but had small smiles and furtive glances to send Margaret's direction every now and then as she and Bessy visited about life in Milton.

Inevitably it came to Marlborough Mills and the well respected and admired Master of the Mill. Bessy said he was the most eligible bachelor in all of Milton. No one had ever caught his eye. Margaret admitted she met him first at the concert with her godfather, Mr. Bell, and that she saw him again at the mill the day of the _incident_. And just Sunday they'd been invited to lunch following services.

"I reckon you've spent more time with him than any lass in Milton."

Margaret laughs at that. "It's just that I happen to be at the right place at the right time."

"At least you dress fine enough for a Master's lady. That dress must have cost you a fine shilling."

As Margaret shrugged, uncomfortable that she would be seen to be superior in any way than her new friend. Then her burly father had walked in, effectively interrupting their conversation.

"Well now, the fine Miss _has _come." He'd been surprised she had seen fit to visit their home. Margaret hadn't been sure if he was teasing or being sarcastic, but she'd decided to not take offense to the man.

"Mr. Higgins, I'm teaching at Mrs. Wilkinson's school," she'd told him proudly. "I have to walk through Princeton every day. I'd like to stop and visit once or twice a week, if you'd allow it?"

"Allow it? Bessy ain't my prisoner. If she wants to see you, then you're welcome to come and go as you please."

Margaret had smiled at him. "Thank you, Mr. Higgins."

Bessy soon changed the topic to a meeting he must have attended that afternoon. He threw a concerned glance toward Margaret, making her extra curious what type of private meeting he might have attended.

"Oh, I was just leaving," she'd said. "I've kept your Bessy and Mary occupied long enough. I'll come again on Friday if that's alright?"

Bessy had laughed. "What sort of pressing engagement might I have to keep you away?"

Margaret had liked her immediately, was so glad she stopped to see her, despite her father. She would be a wealth of information regarding the economic struggles of the working poor from this era. Nicholas would make the perfect example in her paper of a man striving to do better for his family, yet being held back by the system.

That brought her back to today, a snow day. Margaret snuggled further into the thick wool blanket on her bed. She felt day after day she was becoming more entrenched in this 1851 world. The Higgins were the precise reason she had asked Dr. Bell to send her back to this era, to fill in the missing gaps in her paper, that neglected to explain the emotions over the hardships and struggles to survive. Even in the days she'd been in this time, in this place, she'd learned enough to complete her paper. But she wasn't ready to go back to 2014. How odd. The lack of hot showers and flush toilets were no longer such pressing matters. She'd already learned to adjust.

Today she would put the finishing touches on Richard's study so he and Mr. Thornton would be comfortable studying that evening. _If_ Mr. Thornton would even make it that evening because of the snow.

Since Sunday afternoon, following their lunch at Thornton's, she and Richard and Dixon had gone from room to room organizing, moving furniture and making the house a comfortable home.

To say Maria Hale was frail would be an understatement. She was a woman of a weak disposition, prone to dizzy spells, and unable to work for more than short stretches. Margaret was beginning to believe she was quite ill, but Mr. Hale seemed to think once they settled, she would perk back up. Dixon never commented, but Margaret could see the concern in the other woman's eyes.

Margaret's week of six mile walks daily, teaching six hours, then coming home to house renovations including wall paper removal and replacement, and then hours writing down as many notes as she could for her paper before she fell into bed each night had led to an exhausting four days. She thanked God for the snow. She needed to sleep in today.

At least once they were settled, the evenings would be hers to write and compile notes. She did miss her laptop, IPAD and the internet. She listened to the music on her phone for a few precious minutes each night, just to make her happy. The solar charger worked, so as long as that continued to hold a charge, she'd at least have her music. When she returned back to her time she'd be certain to write a thank you to the company that produced the charger, stating that "one never knows where their road might lead."

She and Richard had only to organize his books today. Piles and piles of books into the shelves. He hadn't decided how he wanted them organized or she would have seen to them the night before. She thought perhaps he was trying to be kind to her, not making her finish the study last night, knowing she was tired. No matter, Margaret was determined the room would be ready for Mr. Thornton's visit that evening.

She wasn't certain what she thought of that Thornton man, or why his face invaded almost her every waking moment. She wondered how things might be different in her time, if she'd met such a man. She would have been nervous on Sunday at lunch no matter what. She didn't date very often, she knew she'd be going back to Chicago and didn't want to get entangled in anything she couldn't walk away from. The last time she'd met a guy's parents was in high school. That was only for like serious commitments, not just dinner and a movie kind of thing.

She'd never dated a man who lived with his mother. That had to be some sort of unwritten rule in the twenty-first century, right? He had a temper. An ugly temper. She'd taken self-defense classes while she was in college, felt confident she could protect herself, but she imagined his physical expression of anger wouldn't extend to women. That was something not acceptable in the nineteenth century, and John Thornton was every inch a nineteenth century man.

Those eyes!

She rolled onto her back, squeezed her eyes shut, and remembered the warmth that spread throughout her body as he'd stared at her while they'd eaten lunch. Every time she'd looked his way, his eyes were on her, studying her. It wasn't creepy, like she felt when other men might stare at her. Instead, it was endearing, almost childlike, as if he was trying to figure her out.

She wasn't here to get involved with a man. No, she was here only to write her paper, maybe accumulate enough to write a book, even, but no involvement. She would go back to her time, find a perfectly good job back in America, maybe meet some guy, have four children, love them with all her heart and be happy. Was that too much to ask? Was that even possible?

Maybe he didn't even think she was anything great. When they met at the concert, she noticed a flicker of interest. Well, more than a flicker. In her time, he would have asked her for a drink after the concert or at least gotten her number. But this was 1851, not 2014.

At lunch, he seemed friendly, but not in a romantic sort of way. Of course he was under the microscope of his mother's beady eyes, in front of people he'd only just met. Yes, he'd looked at her often, but it wasn't in a hot, _I wanna take you to bed_, kind of way.

She wouldn't want to lead him on, it wasn't like she would stay here, marry him…and it wasn't like people just _dated_ in Victorian times. There were elaborate courtship rituals. Sighing she closed her eyes again, and tried to remember the phrase used for dating in this era. _Keeping Company_. If he asked her to _keep company_ she would have to refuse. Wouldn't she? Or would that be eliminating a possibility at having those four babies and finding happiness? Could happiness come for her only in the twenty-first century? _Ugh_, she moaned and covered her face with her hands as the image of little black-haired children with their father's blue eyes swam through her head. A muscle clenched in her stomach and she realized she wouldn't pass up the opportunity to explore the possibility…if it presented itself. She wouldn't push for it, wouldn't flirt or give him extra attention unless he initiated it. That's how it worked in this world, or so it seemed. She sighed. This was a complication she never anticipated when she agreed to come to Milton.

Who would he compare to in her world? What would he be like in her world? Some pretty powerful men came to her mind immediately. He'd embrace technology, just as he did at his mill. He'd be the leader of whatever industry he chose, someone others turned to for advice. He'd looked mighty fine in jeans and a t-shirt, too.

But then, there was that awful temper. He'd probably end up in jail. He'd be one of the fools that got plastered at her tavern and hauled off to the pokey to sleep it off. She laughed at that image. No, he was too concerned with his family's well-being and his reputation to do such a thing. She wondered if he felt remorse for his actions toward that Stephens man. Did he feel guilty afterward and wish to change what he'd done? That would show a strength of character that she believed he had. She wondered if she would ever have the courage to ask him about _the incident_.

She reluctantly crawled from the warm confines of her bed. After putting on her wrapper, she lit the gas lamp and sat at her little desk and immediately started a letter to Mr. Bell. She hated writing with ink and a quill. What she wouldn't give for a cheap BIC! But, use the quill she must. Her immediate concern was a need for clothing from somewhere other than Milton. If all her clothes were from here, people, Fanny especially who seemed to notice everything, would become suspicious. She asked for three more dresses and a couple skirts that would work for teaching. If only there were thrift stops or second hand stores for her to shop at. She could make her coins go much farther. In closing, she promised to pay him back the next time she saw him, reassured him that life was calm so far, thanked him for his intercession with Mrs. Wilkinson who Margaret was coming to like very much, and wished him well.

By the time she'd finished her letter she could hear movement downstairs and knew the house was waking up. She sealed her letter and planned to see it mailed once the snow stopped. After getting dressed in her least fancy gown, she made her way into the dining room, not surprised that only Richard was up and eating. Margaret had learned early that Mrs. Hale was not a morning person. Dixon told Margaret early on that it was rare that her mistress was out of bed before noon.

Back in Helstone, Richard spent mornings gardening and then visiting his parishioners. He would spend afternoons with his wife and then evenings he was out and about again, often with Maria. It sounded to Margaret as if he was sort of the center of the social whirl of Helstone. People respected his opinion, came to him for advice over the simple things like a biblical passage but also the most difficult aspects of life such as death, birth and marital harmony. Margaret didn't know if Milton, with its differences, would offer him such opportunities for counseling, but she hoped he and Maria would be happy here, long after she left.

"They would call today a _snow day_ in my American world." She told him as she sat down. She poured herself a cup of hot coffee, glad for a bit of cream and sugar. "On days such as this, children get to stay home and have a break from school." She took a sip of coffee. "I'll start working on your study as soon as the coffee kicks in." She smiled.

"I'm glad you'll be here today, Margaret. Maria has seemed more out of sorts than I would have expected. It will be good to have you around today. I hope Mr. Thornton still plans to come, despite the weather." He glanced quickly out the window, looking concerned.

"I imagine he is anxious to begin as you are." She winked at him over the edge of her coffee cup.

"Pacing again? Must be your first night at the Hale's?" Mother Thornton was repairing the buttons on some of his older shirts this evening. It seemed that once one popped off, the rest followed.

"Yes," he smiled ruefully.

"Are you more excited to see Mr. Hale or Miss Bryce?" He looked up briefly over the rims the glasses she wore for close work.

"I'm not certain," he answered honestly. He never lied to his mother. She had been his only confidant his whole life, the only one he could reveal everything to and know that he would still receive support. "I would like the opportunity to speak with her freely, to get to know her character, beyond her beauty."

"Why not ask her to walk out on Sunday?" she suggested. "The snow is nearly melted from this morning. I do believe I smelled spring in the air when I returned from the mill this afternoon."

"Perhaps I shall, mother." He checked his watch and snapped it shut before kissing her cheek. "I won't be too late."

With a determined step, he left the stuffy confines of the elegant manor house at the mill. The short walk to Crampton cleared his head, readying his mind for the studies he would undertake that evening. After a quick rap at the Hale's door, he removed his hat and stepped back, allowing himself a small grin. What would the home look like now, with furnishing and signs of life?

A stout woman answered the door, and guided Mr. Thornton into Mr. Hale's study where she quickly announced his visit. This must be the maid that Miss Bryce spoke about at lunch on Sunday.

"Ah, Mr. Thornton!" Mr. Hale warmly greeted him, much like an old friend. "I am so pleased you were able to come and read this evening, despite the wet weather."

"I wouldn't have missed it for the world," he admitted truthfully. He'd been counting down the hours since Sunday.

"Mrs. Hale and Margaret said they would bring in tea at eight o'clock sharp, so we should begin right away to get our full hour in."

That hour sped by, in John's estimation. They spent more time talking about Milton than conjugating verbs and tackling Plato, but it was a very enjoyable hour. Mrs. Hale was the first to enter the study where the men had studied. Both men stood as she gracefully breezed into the room, a pleasant look on her face. Mr. Thornton bent his head in greeting and once she chose a spot on the sofa, he and Hale both resumed their previous positions. He thought she looked well that evening, not nearly as worn and fatigued as she had on Sunday.

"I hope I am not too early?" she asked looking between the two men.

"Not at all, Mrs. Hale," John told her. "My brain had absorbed all the new knowledge it can for the evening."

"I highly doubt that, Mr. Thornton." It was Miss Bryce that answered his comment. She was smiling, carrying in the tea tray. She set it down on the small table in front of the sofa. "I bet you are a very intelligent man. But surely after working a full day at your Marlborough Mills your brain is a little…" she almost said fried… "frazzled?"

He chuckled. "That's not a bad description. Today was a market day as well, which means the ledgers will need to be balanced tomorrow." He grinned at Mr. Hale. "I'm afraid the work never ends."

Tonight she wore a maroon, wide skirt, with a cream colored blouse. It flattered her narrow waist and slim shoulders. Her hair was pinned at the back of her head with some curls hanging on the side of her face. As always, her looks captivated him.

She handed him his teacup along with the milk and sugar. She proceeded to offer the same to the Hales and then sat down herself, adding a dollop milk and a lot of sugar to her tea. He considered making a joke about the excess, but wasn't certain how she would accept his humor.

"This room has certainly taken on a much warmer atmosphere since I last viewed this home," he told them.

"It was vacant then, wasn't it?" Miss Bryce directed the question to him.

"Yes. For quite some time." He sipped his tea, covering his nervousness at having her so close. It was as if every nerve in his body on full alert for her every movement, gesture and reaction.

A few minutes of silence ensued as they enjoyed the snack of lemon biscuits and the tea.

"I've just finished reading a letter from my sister who lives in London," Mrs. Hale began the conversation, drawing all eyes upon her. "She writes that there is to be a Great Exhibition beginning in May at Hyde Park in the heart of London. Have you heard of this, Mr. Thornton?"

"I have, yes." He nodded and then balanced his teacup on his thigh. "I am considering taking my family to experience it. My sister longs to go to London, but I fear my mother will never go."

"Anna Shaw is my sister," Mrs. Hale told him. "Her daughter, my niece, Edith, is nearly Margaret's age and will be wedding an army captain in early April. Maxwell Lennox is his name. I hope we'll be able to attend."

He didn't miss the hopeful look Mrs. Hale shot her husband who nodded in reply.

"Did Mrs. Shaw say anything else about the Great Exhibition?" Miss Bryce asked her. "Or Mr. Thornton, perhaps you know more about it?"

He liked how she sought his opinion. He waited for Mrs. Hale to add something, but she shrugged instead and said that all Anna wrote was that there was great construction going on and from all she heard there would be something from almost every part of the world represented. Including exotic foods and animals.

"I have read that also," he agreed. "Being in manufacturing, my interests lie in the machinery that is expected to be displayed."

"Are there advances you do not yet have at your mill? Are there things you could add or change to become more efficient?" she asked him again.

Was she truly interested or was she only being polite? "I imagine new things are always being developed and experimented. I added three power looms within the last few months."

"Only three?" she asked.

"It's an issue of training and financial timing. My looms are fine, but the newer ones produce a higher quality cotton at a faster speed. They run differently, require more precise training. As I remove looms from production to switch to the new ones, I have to train people to run the new ones." He shrugged, pleased by her rapt expression. She _was_ interested.

"You plan to add more in time, then? As you train more people?"

"I do." He nodded. "I also utilize something called a wheel." He hesitantly looked away from her keen stare and glanced at the Hales so they wouldn't notice his growing fascination with Miss Bryce. "We have a place called a carding room. Inside the room cotton fibers and dust, or fluff as some call it, float through the air often settling on the lungs of my workers." He turned back to Miss Bryce, he simply couldn't help it. "I installed this wheel, which circulates the fluff outside, so fewer are inflicted with lung ailments."

He took a sip of tea, worried he was talking too much. So few cared to listen to him, having an attentive audience was uncommon. He could speak with his mother, of course, but she already knew everything there was to know about the mill, so it often fell on deaf ears.

"Other mills have installed such a device?" Miss Bryce asked. "This wheel you mentioned?"

"No." He shook his head. "Most of the owners felt the cost was too high for them. It was nearly six hundred pounds. I think they may see the benefit in time, when they see the positive results of improved health of my employees, but at present, no one else has."

Something had her frowning. He waited for a comment, and when none came, Mrs. Hale declared she was tired, but would look forward to visiting with him the next time he came for lessons.

"I shall see Maria up and then be back in a few minutes." Mr. Hale escorted his wife toward the door of his study. "Please make yourself at home, Mr. Thornton." He glanced back at Margaret, who smiled at him and wished Mrs. Hale a good rest.

"What has you frowning, Miss Bryce?" John asked her quietly.

When she looked at him, and then away, he set down his cup on the table and chanced the opportunity to join her at the other end of the sofa. She didn't move or shift away, so he took that as a sign of acceptance of his close proximity. Lord, she was beautiful. Her big green eyes seemed to draw him in.

"I hope that you and I might always speak frankly with one another," he said, virtually placing his heart in her hands. "I'm not the sort of man that finds women inferior, and when I expressed an interest in helping you with your research, I was in earnest. I promise to always speak the truth if you will extend the same courtesy to me."

"Thank you," she said, meeting his gaze with a direct one of her own. How had he missed the flecks of gold in her eyes? "The frowning comes from confusion. At the moment I am struggling to understand the dichotomy you have presented to me, Mr. Thornton."

"Dichotomy? To what do you refer?"

"On the one hand you invest in machinery to aid in the health of your workers." She tipped her dainty hand palm facing up on her lap. "I find that quite commendable. Yet, on the other hand," she moved her other hand in the same gesture, "you allow your temper to become so enraged that you nearly beat a man to death, one of the very workers you tried to save with your wheel." She shook her head with a sigh.

"And you question which master I am?" he asked. "One who is benevolent or punitive?"

She nodded. "Then I take into account your seemingly pious Christian nature I witnessed at church, and the manner in which you care for your family, I become further confused. Was your anger an... aberration, Mr. Thornton?"

He didn't know how to answer, so with the pause lengthening, she continued.

"Have you read Austen, Mr. Thornton?" She looked closely at him, a well curved eyebrow arched, awaiting his answer.

"I have not." He shook his head and leaned back against the sofa, curious where this train of conversation would take them. Pleased to discuss whatever she wished to. "Fanny has a number of novels lying about from time to time. Why do you ask?" He frowned.

"Our conversation reminds me of a scene within one of her books." She took a sip of tea before continuing. "The two main characters are Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy. Mr. Darcy is quite wealthy, sort of a snob to everyone, but Elizabeth thinks there's more to him than that, she eventually realizes he is shy and reserved, not from feelings of superiority, but just sort of a social awkwardness. Elizabeth is outgoing and pleasant, well-liked by everyone. Darcy likes Elizabeth in a romantic sort of way, shows her more attention than any other woman, and invites her to dance when he never dances." She shifted, tucking her foot underneath her on the sofa, getting into the description. He found it hard not to reach out and grab her hand. "As they dance, Elizabeth is perplexed about Darcy, much as I am about you. She asks him any number of questions, as I have of you, although on a different topic, and he is curious why she is so interested in his answers. She responds that she is asking him questions to form an 'illustration of _his _character,' which she is 'trying to make it out."

"And how does Mr. Darcy respond to her?" He's curious to know what he should have said in answer to her questions.

"He simply asks her if she has had success in determining his character." With a shrug, she chuckled.

"And she replies?"

Margaret smiled at that, too. "Much the same as I would, if you were to ask me, which is why the scene stuck in my head. She admits that because she hears such different accounts of him, from many people, those she trusts and those she doesn't know well, that she is exceedingly puzzled."

"Is that what I have done to you, Miss Bryce?" he whispered, fearing her reply. "Have I _puzzled you exceedingly_?"

"Things are very different in Milton," she said in equal tone. "I'm not always sure I'm saying or doing the proper thing. I would like to speak frankly with you, too, Mr. Thornton. I pride myself on having a sound mind, and I'm not afraid to use it." Her lips twisted.

Mr. Hale came back in at that moment. She smiled at the older man and stood.

"It was nice talking with you, Mr. Thornton, but I must retire for the evening." She held out her hand to him. "I'd enjoy more conversation about your mill and the people that work for you."

"I would welcome that, Miss Bryce." He shook her hand, intentionally extending the time to slide it from his hand.

"Good night, Richard." She patted his arm before leaving the room.

Once she was gone, Mr. Hale found his tea cup and sat again.

"She's such a nice young girl. Highly intelligent. Bell told me if she were a man she'd be instructing at Oxford and I believe he was correct. Instead she toils daily at a school on the edge of Milton."

"She's teaching here?" That was a surprise. How had she found a position so soon after arriving? "In Milton? Where?"

"The school is run by a Mrs. Wilkinson." Mr. Hale took a sip of his tea frowning, probably due to it being cold, and leaned forward to top off his cup with more from the pot. "Mr. Bell recommended it to her."

Ah, more of Adam Bell's handiwork. "Where is it?" John hadn't heard of such a school.

"I'm not certain. I know she leaves quite early, right around seven, and she's back by four, except on the days she stops in Princeton to visit with a young girl she recently met."

"Princeton?" He was surprised. That was not an area for ladies of fine breeding to be wandering through. Especially a woman of her beauty and inexperience.

"You know the area?" Hale asked.

"I do." He nodded. How could she be friendly with people in that area of town? "It's a rough part of town, Mr. Hale."

"Is she unsafe?"

"Perhaps." Then he shook his head, worried he'd given anxiety to the older man. "Probably not." He frowned.

He didn't like the idea of her working. He didn't like the idea of her walking alone that far and certainly not by herself. It was one thing to do research and write papers for Bell, but teaching in a school with people that far below her station? It didn't feel right to him. He had no hold on her, of course, no right to dictate what she did, but that didn't prevent him from feeling concerned.

The fact the he was concerned for her well-being concerned him greatly. He was becoming quickly attached to the young woman from America, and it might not end well for him, especially if her opinion of him was as poor as he believed it to be. She wouldn't be questioning his character though, or his mill unless she had some interest in him, would she? Oh this was so confusing to him!

"What if I came to fetch her tomorrow morning with the carriage?" he suggested this before thinking. "I'll see her to school, meet this Mrs. Wilkinson, although if Bell likes her I'm certain she's a good sort of woman, and see what type of neighborhood this is in?"

"Could you spare the time, Mr. Thornton?" Hale asked him. "That would remove a great worry from me."

"I would be happy to. But for now, I must say goodnight. If the lady wakes and departs as early as you suggest, I must adjust my morning schedule." He stood and shook Mr. Hale's proffered hand. "This has been a most exceptional evening for me, Mr. Hale, and I must thank you."

"I hope that we can enjoy many more, Mr. Thornton." Mr. Hale saw him to the door and bid him goodbye.

Fastening his coat against the cold, thoughts of Miss Bryce and their conversation swirled in his head as he made his way home to the Marlborough Mills. No woman had ever challenged him as she had tonight, and he had a feeling this was merely the tip of the iceberg. He smiled, a warmth spreading across him, as he remembered how she looked at the concert, and then again for church and lunch at his home. Somehow, despite the short acquaintance they understood each other, and were comfortable with each other. He wasn't certain if she was still worried about his anger. He never really answered her question about that, but he knew he'd be hunting his shelves for a copy of Jane Austen tonight. Had she mentioned the title? He couldn't recall, but surely his sister had all the novels, and he could just look for the main characters. He smiled again and was soon at home, climbing the stairs of the home he worked so hard to earn.


	7. Chapter 7

"_I wasn't lookin' for love  
It didn't really fit inside of my world but  
One look in your eyes, and I completely changed my mind…  
_

_I… wasn't lookin' for you  
But you found me just like you were made to  
And it's crazy now to think about how we almost lived without... each other_

I, I,  
Love spendin' all my time  
Lying right here by your side  
A place where I can always stay, cause you  
You make me feel safe  
You make me feel safe…"

_Katie Arminger ~~Safe~~_

Friday dawned bright and sunny again with the snow well melted, and most of the puddles dried up. Although most weeks she would work only Monday through Friday, today she would ask Mrs. Wilkinson if she could come back on Saturday to make up for the missing yesterday. The young man she was teaching math was especially devoted to his studies and Margaret felt bad she'd not made it in the day before. And really, there was little difference in Milton between a Friday and a Saturday. The mills ran most of the day on Saturdays too.

Margaret wore the only dress she hadn't worn yet, because it was so boring. She hated the mustard brown color but had bought it because she knew it wouldn't show the dirt and muck as she walked to and from school daily. She spent a large amount of time playing on the floor with the younger children as she read to them, and then when she took them outside in good weather, she played just as hard as they did, so it made little sense to wear fancy dresses.

After her usual light breakfast, she was ready to set off right at seven on the nose. Unlike most mornings, however, as she walked out the front door, she spotted a fine carriage parked on her street. She twisted her lips, holding back a smile. Had Mr. Thornton come to wish her good morning or was he merely visiting the Hales for breakfast?

She watched, spellbound, as John Thornton stepped down from the carriage. How was it that she was so excited to see him?

"The Hales are not awake yet, Mr. Thornton." She moved forward to greet him, extending her hand as she did so. "It's very early for you to be out and about."

"I have come to see you to work this morning." His smile was sincere and breathtaking. He took her hand and gently placed his lips on her glove encased knuckles.

She knew she was blushing. How silly! She'd been kissed with much more passion, why such a simple gesture should make her all aflutter she couldn't understand.

"Drive me to work?" She focused on the intention of his visit, scoffing at his chivalry. He was driving her to work? How wonderful and unexpected! "Don't you have your own job to see to?"

"That is a benefit of being the boss." Again the smile. He was killing her. He dropped her hand and took a step back. Damn. Why did he always have to ask like a proper nineteenth century dude?

"I like my morning walks," she said, still not certain how to receive his offer. "I'm able to wake up as I stroll along, while enjoying the morning sky before the fogs and smoke roll in." She couldn't understand why she was being so stubborn about this. It was just a ride to work. A nice gesture. That damn independent streak would be her downfall.

"How about this?" He smirked. He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms against his chest. "Miss Bryce, would you do me the great honor of allowing me to escort you today? Mr. Hale and I are concerned about the location of your school. I promised him I would make certain it is a safe area for you."

Ah, ha. There is was. The worry about her safety. She knew that would be coming. Women in this era were given so little freedom to do as they wished. She knew she was quite safe as she walked to and from school every day. She left when it was light out and was home well before dark. Any shady characters were too busy sleeping off the night before or already in the pubs when she was walking.

"Mr. Bell was confident the school was a safe place, and I trust his judgment." She felt her hackles begin to rise. She had to remain firm. If this man was going to play a role in her life, even for the short time she was here, she had to let him know he couldn't control her. No way.

"Please, Miss Bryce? Allow me to ease Mr. Hale's concerns." She studied his face, realized he was quite sincere, that he had no ulterior motive. Although arrogant, he wasn't some macho chauvinistic guy who thought she was wimp and couldn't take care of herself. He was just being protective for Richard's sake. Something inside her yearned for him to have an interest in her well-being, too.

Reluctantly, she nodded her consent.

"Excellent! Would you give directions to the driver?" he asked, and pointed to the man riding atop the carriage.

She did as he asked, and then with his help, she climbed into the carriage. With a tap of the roof with his walking stick, they were on their way. The thought of a chaperone flitted through her mind, but she disregarded it as unnecessary. Why did she have to wear the ugly dress today of all days? Gah!

"I'm very independent, Mr. Thornton." She looked at him directly, much like she had the night before. "I don't accept help when it's not needed."

He nodded, an intense gaze her direction. "I am doing this for Mr. Hale's peace of mind."

She didn't know what to say to that. Richard and Maria were such wonderful people. They'd already become surrogate parents, parents she would have loved to had growing up. If it had been Richard's idea, as Mr. Thornton claimed, she wouldn't do anything to deny him peace of mind.

"Are you an early riser?" he asked her.

"Yes!" she answered a bit too quickly. "Always at dawn. I don't wish to waste daylight sleeping." She shifted slightly on the seat and then glanced out the window. "There has been so much to do since coming here. It didn't take long to arrange my living space, but when the Hales came all my energy switched to their comforts."

"I wake with the dawn as well." His lips twitched in a smile. "You appear to be getting along well with them," he said. "The Hales, that is."

"I seem to have the knack to get along with most people." Her smile turned into a frown. "Before I forget, I should probably ask you for the name of your family physician."

"You're feeling poorly?" His concern was evident and very touching. Damn she could love this man, even if he had anger management issues.

"Oh, no, not me." She shook her head. "It's Mrs. Hale that worries me sometimes. Her color fluctuates, and her energy is so low, along with her spirits. I thought in time she would adjust, but she doesn't seem to be getting any better. She tires quite easily. Mr. Hale hasn't said anything, but it seems to worry him as well. I see an odd expression on his face sometimes when he looks at her."

"I'm sorry to hear that." He reached forward and briefly patted her hand. She wanted to take it and hold it. His hand was large, with long fingers and she had a feeling it was strong. "She seems to be a very frail lady, so different from my mother, anyway." He fixed his beautiful blue eyes on her again. "Dr. Donaldson is our physician. Fanny calls on him often. She seems to have a very weak disposition, at the smallest sniffle she calls on him. He'd be the age of a grandfather, I suppose, and he humors her. I don't have his direction memorized, but I will get it to you."

"Thank you," she answered. What would he do if she sifted to his side of the carriage and gave him a hug? She smiled to herself at what she figured his reaction would be. "It will be a relief to know who to call should something be required. Dixon, the housekeeper, is very protective of her, but it seems Mr. Hale is in denial."

"You must let me know if there is anything I can do to help," he said. His eyes were gentle, as if beckoning her do just what she wanted to- jump the seat and land on his lap.

Instead, she wussed out and just nodded.

"What have you been teaching here?" He seemed legitimately interested.

"Mathematics to the older boys in the morning," she answered. "Reading to the five and six year olds in the afternoon."

"Mathematics?" He looked shocked. "Truly?"

"Yes. I am very good with numbers." She wouldn't add that it was her second major while in college, and that she could run figures and percentages quickly in her head.

"So, simple arithmetic?" he prodded.

"Oh, no." She shook her head, loosening the pins at the back. She reached up to fix it, surprised by the look of well… longing… he gave her. She swallowed and lowered her hands to her lap again. "The boys are far beyond that. My eldest student is fifteen, we're working on Mr. Andrew Wendell's 'mixed Mathematics' model which he teaches at Oxford."

He gaped at her. "You understand that?"

"I do." She nodded, careful not to disrupt her hair again. "It's an abstract algebra." She shrugged. "It's just a bunch of numbers and formulas."

"You're joking!"

"I am not." She frowned. "If I were a man, I would be an instructor at Oxford. Or Cambridge. I have a very sound mind."

"Can you balance ledgers?" he asks quietly.

"Of course. In my head." She tapped the side of her forehead with her pointer finger.

"What?" He sounded shocked. In fact, he sat back hard against the seat.

"Truly. Columns of numbers. In my head. Very quickly."

He's obviously shocked, but he seems to believe her. His stare continues with an expression she cannot read, until she finally looked away. He had the weird ability to unnerve her. Few men could do that, but he definitely did.

"Here we are," she announced. "It's so much faster in a carriage than walking."

Once the carriage came to a stop, he opened the door, stepped down and then helped her out. He refused to let go of her hand, though, which made her laugh.

"Thank you for the ride." Again she wanted to wrap her arms around his neck and hold him. Again, she decided it would be insane, and instead pried her hand away and took three steps backwards.

"I'm not leaving," he announced.

"What do you mean?" This was unexpected. The ride had been more than pleasant, but what would he be sticking around for?

"I'm coming in," he said. "I would like to meet the headmistress and see what the inside looks like."

"It's not necessary," she said. "You can see for yourself this neighborhood is very calm, nothing dangerous afoot." She waved into the air. "I leave well before dark every day, before the mills let out in the evening. I am home before tea time, except when I visit my friend Bessy in Princeton."

"Bessy?" He asked, following behind her into the small, tidy brick building. Apparently he was not going to be dissuaded.

"Yes. Bessy Higgins." She removed her gloves and bonnet before hanging her coat on a hook by the door. Then she turned back to him, ready to do battle now over her one true friend in Milton. "I met her when I was at your mill that day."

"_That_ day?"

"Yes, _that_ day." He knew exactly what day she meant. She reached for his coat and hung it on the hook, over the top of hers.

"Would that be Nicholas Higgin's daughter?"

"Yes." She nodded. _Here it comes_, she thought.

"But, he's a rabble rouser, Miss Bryce." Mr. Thornton sputtered.

"Bessy is not. And she is my friend," she answered quietly, but with conviction and determination.

She stared him down, daring him to argue. He had no hold over her. He was not her father, her brother, or her… husband. She twisted her lips at that thought. It would be almost comforting to have him care for her in such a way. Although it warred with her independent spirit, maybe it would be okay to be cherished and cared for by this man. Gah! What was she thinking? She lived two centuries beyond this man. That was where her future was, not here.

"Come to the back," she told him, setting aside her crazy thoughts.

She loved her little work area. It was cheery, homey, and very comfortable. Tables were set up for learning, rather than confining desks. Mrs. Wilkinson called to them from the back, and Margaret quickly introduces the two, surprised at how they each take account of each other. Two tough cookies staring each other down. Margaret knows she is not the friendliest person in the world, but Mrs. Wilkinson's cold regard for Mr. Thornton is a little difficult to understand. She sensed his discomfort and quickly led him to the back room where she taught the small children in the morning, pleased with the cheerful sun shining in the room. Reflecting off the bright yellow walls, it looks like a happy, pleasant place to learn.

"Very nice." He nodded his approval. "Show me the materials you teach."

"What, the reading ones?" she teased. She knew he was still not wholly convinced she knows algebra. She pulls out her latest lesson plans and hands him a sheet of paper with some problems written out, ready to be simplified through algebraic means.

"Solve one of these," he commanded.

"You try," she suggests.

"It's been nearly eighteen years since I've looked at such numbers. I think I need to see you do it first." He was dodging the work and it made her laugh.

"18 years ago, I was only six, sir." She laughed again. "In your daily work you probably do not need his sort of math, but this young man wishes to become an engineer for the burgeoning railroad. He hopes to connect all of Britain. So for him, this will be good."

"I believe I should take offense at being called old, Miss Bryce," he teased.

She smiled mischievously, pleased he accepted her gentle ribbing.

"Why is he here and not at a boy's school?" he asked her.

"His father can't afford it." She shrugged. "I'm hopeful he will earn a scholarship. Harrow and Eton both have tests and if he does well enough he will be accepted next term."

She moved papers around and located her pencil. After she took a seat, she looked up at him, standing closely over her shoulder. "Watch and listen well, sir. I shall solve it for you." One step at a time, she proceeded to solve the equation, talking him through each and every step.

She glanced back up at him, surprised at just how close he was standing behind her chair. His chest was only centimeters from her back, she could almost feel his heat, and if she turned her head just a fraction, she could kiss his neck. Gah! She swallowed.

"You try the next one." She pushed back her chair and offered him the seat, which he folded his long legs into, with ease.

"Very well, teacher."

She left her example at the top for him to follow and watches as he goes through the steps. She catches him as he makes a mistake and gently talks him through the next step. When he finishes, she smiles at him broadly and unconsciously rubs his shoulder in sort of a congratulatory gesture.

She stepped back quickly, realizing she should not have touched him

"You did excellent, Mr. Thornton." She covered her faux pas with praise. "You have great ability to learn, even if it has been some time since you were in a school room."

"I believe it must be the teacher." His _melted chocolate, do naughty things with me_, voice was back. It was hard for her to turn away, but she had to ready herself for a full day of school. He stood up, and she backed further away, too tempted to touch him again.

"Do you wish to see anything else?" she asked.

"No," he answered quietly. "I believe you have a fine situation here, Miss Bryce. Mr. Hale should have nothing to worry about."

"Just as I told you." She winked at him and led him through the room, back to the front door where she would wait for students coming in.

"It _is_ a long walk, however," he reminded her.

"I've enjoyed it so far." She plucked his coat from the hook by the door and handed it to him. "But, I thank you for the ride today."

"What time are you through today?"

"I leave at 2:30," she answered.

"I shall send the carriage back for you."

"You will not." She would not allow him to control her! "Remember, I enjoy the walk."

"If you do not allow me to do this, Miss Bryce, I will tell Mr. Hale not to let you come back tomorrow," he threatened.

She snorted in response, not willing to fall for his empty threats. "He is not my father. I am of age, Mr. Thornton, and I believe he will defer to whatever I tell him, no matter how convincing you might be. He and Maria know I am happy working here and he will not force me to quit."

"He will if I tell him to."

She laughed outright at that. "And what shall you tell the dra…" She about called Mrs. Thornton the nickname she'd heard used for her… "_your mother_ the reasoning for my use of your carriage."

"She won't ask."

She snorted again. "Mr. Thornton, I would be greatly shocked if she doesn't know the moment you sneeze each day."

"What are you saying?" His look was comical, his brow was in a frown, his lips in a scrunched up position.

"She is your overseer," Margaret told him. "You may run the mill, but she runs the rest of your life."

His jaw hung askew and she laughed outright at him. "Be careful or you'll be catching flies. You know I am right." She nodded. He was speechless, and she knew it was because he had no room to argue.

Three little children started running up to her, finally lunging into her skirts. When they realized there was a stranger they stared openly at him. Margaret introduced each child to him, and then shooed them into building.

"Miss Maggie?" he asked with a smirk.

"That's what they call me. Bryce comes out slurred and Margaret is too many syllables. Maggie has _always_ been my nickname." _I'd love to hear you use it._

"I see." The smirk was back. "How many children come each day?" 

"Oh, I suppose thirty in all. All different ages and abilities."

His answer was a nod, and another glance at the door. He seemed reluctant to leave her company.

"I shall bid you a good day, Mr. Thornton. Please, do _not_ send your carriage this afternoon. I am quite safe."

He tipped his head in a terse bow before climbing back into his carriage, without another word.

She hadn't wanted to part from him, and that was a weird feeling, one she would have to examine more closely that afternoon on her walk home.

He never should have visited Margaret that morning, never should have spent any time with her at all. John could not concentrate on anything but her for the rest of the wasted day. The way her dress fit, the way she smelled, the way her hair started to tumble from its pins and his extreme urge to fix it for her.

He decided to go home for the noon meal, and not surprisingly as he joined her at the table, his mother asked where he'd gone so early that morning. He smiled to himself, filling his plate with ham and potatoes, remembering Miss Bryce had predicted that. Had his mother heard him sneeze as he entered the weaving shed?

"Mr. Hale asked me to run an errand for him this morning."

"You? Run an errand for the likes of Mr. Hale?" She was astounded, and he wanted to laugh, but instead he remained quite calm, and absorbed her ire.

"Yes, mother. I did."

They proceeded to eat in tense silence.

"Don't you think that is a sound plan?" His mother interrupted his thoughts of Miss Bryce.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"John you are a million miles away," she accused.

He smiled and she suddenly jumped on him.

"You were with _her_, weren't you?"

"Her?" He played dumb.

"Miss Bryce! You were with her this morning?"

"Yes," he admitted before sipping his tea. "I took her to her school today."

"Her school?"

"Yes, she is teaching at a small school on the edge of the Princeton district. Mrs. Wilkinson runs it. It's in a fine building, and what she is teaching is worthwhile. Mr. Hale didn't know the area she was in, and was concerned about her safety. I told him I would investigate for him."

"Who is she teaching?" She began to pick at her food, he could tell she was angry, but he was pleased that she continued the conversation.

"A variety of pupils," he answered. "They are mostly children of merchants and tradespeople. Men who cannot afford to send their boys to Eton and wish for their girls to know how to read and write."

His mother nodded. "How did she come across this occupation?"

"Mr. Bell knew the headmistress and introduced her." He wiped his mouth and set his napkin next to his plate. "She's doing interesting work, mother. She walks there and back every day. Hardly the idle miss you believed her to be. The math she showed me today I had never even seen before. I never reached the level of math she is teaching."

"If you didn't need it, who would?" She huffed.

"The young boy she teaches is hoping to be an engineer for the railroad. If he passes some tests he will be able to go to Eton for free next term, so she is tutoring him."

His mother had nothing to say to that. He decided to push his luck a bit further with her.

"Have you read Pride and Prejudice?"

"Now you are interested in reading novels? Good heavens, John what has come over you?"

"I was just curious. She quoted a passage yesterday after my studies with Hale, and I wondered if you remembered it."

She shook her head. "Don't let that woman lead you into a life of idleness. Your main focus must be the mill."

"Of course it is, but if given the opportunity to expand my mind I must accept it. It will not hurt my work to read with Mr. Hale, or call on Miss Bryce."

"That's what you intend to do, then? You plan to court her?" His mother rested her hands flat on the table, on the side of her plate. "Have you changed your opinion? Do you think she'll agree to spend time with you?"

"I hope so, yes."

"Go slow, son. We don't know anything about her family or her background. She's an American, why would she decide to stay here in Milton?"

"You don't think I could be enough incentive to stay here?" His voice raised slightly, causing his mother to flinch.

"Just be careful," she warned.

"She is an intelligent, lovely young woman. I still wish to get to know her better and spend more time in her company."

"I see." Her lips were twisted in a frown, but she didn't say anything else.

He turned the conversation toward mill issues, a topic that was never easily exhausted, and the rest of the meal progressed quietly without conflict.

After lunch, he went to the study where his old textbooks were shelved. When he'd left school, almost all had to be sold, but he retained his books. Those he was unwilling to part with. He sorted through a number of titles until he located his highest level math book and pulled it down.

Flipping through it, he's quite surprised that there is nothing so complicated as what Miss Bryce had completed that morning. There are problems that could be worked with the first few steps she utilized, but nothing nearly so complex. Had math increased in difficulty so much since he last learned? Perhaps he would learn algebra in addition to studying the bible and classics.

He wanted to see her smile at him again as she did earlier. His body had responded in very masculine ways to her soft voice, nearness and scent. It was that same vanilla/lavender he'd smelled the day before. God, but she was lovely. She'd given him such a brilliant smile when he found the correct answer to that math problem and then she did the most unexpected thing. She'd rubbed his shoulder! She'd touched him!

He set aside the math textbook and began to push books aside on the shelf to find the Jane Austen that Miss Bryce had mentioned. She hadn't given the title of the book, but rather the characters. He found _Emma_, and then _Sense and Sensibility_ but neither had the characters she'd named. The third book was the charm, and when he opened _Pride and Prejudice_ he realized it looks brand new.

"Oh you are here! I was with Ann Latimer for lunch and just arrived home. What are you doing here at this time of day, Johnny?" Fanny stopped just inside the doorway.

"I wanted to find some books Miss Bryce mentioned to me." He raised the copy of Pride and Prejudice. "Have you read this one?"

She moved into the room and took the book from his hand. "I began to, but then I put it down. The male character, _Mr. Darcy_, was such a horrid bore."

"A horrid bore? I see." He held out his hand for her to return it to him. "I have to be on my way back to the mill."

"You'll be home for dinner?" 

"No." He sighed, dreading his evening to come. "Tonight I dine out."

She wiggled her fingers at him as she left the room. He followed soon after her. Margaret had compared him to Darcy, so did she find him to be a bore? It certainly hadn't seemed that way when they spoke about the mill. She seemed interested in all he said. But, it was mostly him talking, so perhaps she was just being polite. She had admitted that she was trying to discern his character so obviously she cared a little bit. Right?

He decided it would be far better to lose himself in his ledgers than try to decipher the behavior of women. Margaret Bryce, make that _Maggie_ Bryce, especially.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hold me now  
It's hard for me to say I'm sorry  
I just want you to know…_

_Hold me now  
I really want to tell you I'm sorry  
I could never let you go…_

_Chicago ~~Hard To Say I'm Sorry~~_

Margaret left school earlier than usual. Intentionally. She didn't want the Thornton carriage to fetch her, and she was relatively certain John Thornton wasn't a man to accept _no_ for an answer. If it did arrive and she refused it, he would be furious. That idea gave her a small amount of satisfaction, although it shouldn't. But, how else could she show him that she was an independent woman? She didn't need a ride and she didn't need a man telling her that she did.

She never considered herself a feminist, not in an activist sense. She knew she had more hurdles to jump over then men, even in academia. She'd gained ground on her own ability and merit… not reliance upon a man. She'd been in charge of herself for so long, giving control of any portion of her life to someone else would be difficult, even if it was someone like John Thornton.

Mere seconds after she knocked on the Higgins' weather-worn, splintered door, Bessy cracked it open and greeted her with a bright smile.

"Well, Miss Margaret you are early today," Bessy commented. She removed her own coat and gloves before reaching for Margaret's. "I've just arrived myself. Give me your coat and have a seat. We'll visit while I heat the kettle."

Margaret did as Bessy asked, seating herself closest to the stove. It was chilly in their small home. "I left the school a bit early today. You won't even believe what happened this morning." Margaret shook her head, still amazed herself.

"Go on, then. Tell me." Bessy sat across from her at the table, all aflutter in anticipation.

"As I was leaving for school this morning, who should happen to be at my house waiting for me in his fancy carriage?"

"No! Thornton?"

Margaret nodded briskly and laughed. Bessy hooted and slapped the table causing the teacups she'd just placed there to rattle.

"I thought perhaps he was there for the Hale's for breakfast or something, but no! He was there to escort _me_ to school." Margaret giggled. She was realizing that it had flattered her that he'd taken the time to come, even if it warred with her need for independence. "Can you believe it?"

"Why of course I can," Bessy huffed. "I knew he was interested in you, Margaret." She clapped, a huge smile on her face. "Why else would he invite you to his home for lunch on Sunday?"

Margaret nodded in agreement. "I haven't told you about last night."

"Oh for the Lord's blessing, girl. Get on with it!" Bessy rolled her eyes.

Margaret laughed again. Being with Bessy made her so happy. "Thornton came for lessons with Richard, just as he'd planned. Well, when Richard helped Maria up to retire, it gave Mr. Thornton and me a chance to speak about his behavior at the mill." Margaret considered mentioning the Pride and Prejudice conversation, but changed her mind quickly, knowing Bessy couldn't read very well. "I told him I couldn't understand how he could act in a certain way at the mill, and a much more civilized way at church and in our home. I told him I was trying to better understand his character."

"And?"

Margaret scrunched her face, trying to remember exactly what he had said. "Well, I guess he never really did answer my question about the fight with that Stephens guy. But, I did tell him he is _puzzling me exceedingly_." She smiled at Bessy. "I hate to admit it, and probably wouldn't to anyone but you, but I do think I like him."

"Just a little?" Bessy had an adorable way of twisting her lips that made her appear to be hiding some amazing secret or funny thing that she forced herself to conceal. The kettle chose that moment to whistle so Bessy got up and fetched it back to the table.

"A lot," Margaret admitted. "How silly am I? There could never be anything between us. He's wealthy, I'm not. He's lives here and I'm… there." She couldn't tell Bessy where _there _really was. The girl would think she was crazy.

"You can stay _here_ if he wants you, can't you?" Bessy added a dash of milk to each cup she'd just poured and then sat back on her chair. "You wouldn't have to work for your Mr. Bell any longer if you wed John Thornton."

_Wed_ John Thornton? What a stretch. Well, in 1851, that probably wasn't such a stretch. Some things were easier here. You like a man, he likes you, you marry each other. No years of dating. No fancy guest registries.

"I like my work," Margaret argued. "Besides, I have only just met the man, hardly enough time to know if we would suit for a lifetime together!"

"How was the ride in the carriage?" Bessy smirked again. Margaret was so lucky to have this friend.

"I rode with him and his mother and Fanny in their carriage on Sunday, of course, when they took me home after services." She took another sip of tea, trying to put into words what their time alone together had meant to her. "But it was different when we were alone. We could speak freely with each other, which I appreciated. He was surprised I could teach boys math. So, when we got to the school, he didn't leave! He had me show him what I was teaching, and was surprised I was being truthful about my skills." She laughed remembering the look of shock on his face as she completed those algebra equations. She wouldn't mention that to Bessy, it might sound like bragging. "He stayed for a bit to look at the school. His excuse was that Richard was worried about the safety of the neighborhood and had asked him to check it out for him."

"What did he say?"

"He decided it was a safe place to be." Margaret finished her tea and wiped the corners of her mouth. "Just as I told him it was."

Bessy turned solemn. "I'm not certain how things are in America, Maggie, but here… if he likes you… and I think we both will agree he does… he will pursue you." She looked down into her teacup as if there were answers there. "I reckon you need to decide if you'll accept him or not. He's a stern man, no doubt of that, but you won't want to hurt him if you truly have no interest in marriage."

"Oh Bessy, I'm afraid when it comes to the nuts and bolts of life Mr. Thornton and I will have too few things in common to sustain anything long term." Margaret sighed. "He'll figure that out soon enough and be on his way." She waved in the air as if doing so would dismiss the idea entirely.

Bessy laughed. "You say such odd things, Maggie! In England, most people of his class, and yours I might add, marry for convenience, for money, and for position. Who cares if you agree about things! If you can tolerate him, Lord you'd have a fine life. There haven't been women in his life, either. As far as I know, no one has ever been _intimately_ connected to him." Suddenly she slipped into a coughing fit. Margaret stood quickly to help, patting her on the back hoping to dislodge whatever caused the attack.

"It's a cold I can't shake from my chest," Bessy explained once the fit passed. "It just sits there, wiggles around but I can't get anything up when I cough."

Margaret wondered if it was the fluff from the mill. "Have you always been at Marlborough Mills?"

"No, when me mum was alive I was Hampers with Pa, but when Thornton installed the wheel, I got a job there." She grinned. "He's a better master and pays better, too."

Thornton had spoken about his wheel. At least Bessy was being helped by it. Probably hundreds more like her, too. That would have to be included in her paper. She made a mental note to add it when she got home.

Margaret was still patting Bessy on the back when Nicholas came in. He looked from Bessy to Margaret and quietly closed the door behind him. Not uttering a single syllable, he hung up his hat and went to the sink to wash up.

"Thank you for the tea and visit, Bessy." She took her friend's hand and squeezed it. "I'll be back on Wednesday if that suits you?" Margaret glanced at the back of Nicholas's head before looking back at Bessy and then moved to the rack where her coat was hung.

"I'd be sad if you didn't come," Bessy said, her lip slipping into a pout.

When Margaret took her leave, with a hug for Bessy, Nicholas still hadn't said a word to either of them. Why was he so unhappy to have her in his house? He wasn't rude precisely, just sort of impolite. _Well, screw you, Nicholas Higgins, I will keep coming until you tell me I can't. No matter how unwelcoming you are!_

Margaret took a deep breath as she stepped from the little _back to back_ house, preparing herself for the agonizing poverty she was to witness as she walked through the Princeton district. It was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, this hopelessness, and despair. The women's worn faces, showing both spiritual and emotional exhaustion bit into Margaret's soul. Babies wailing from hunger, the stench and filth, the sickness from lack of sanitation- these were all the pieces she'd been missing from her writing. This was exactly what she came to experience, to somehow incorporate the raw emotions into her papers, even if it distressed her so much to see it. Perhaps leaving it from her writing would be better. It would be less emotional for her and her readers, anyway, but as it was integral to life in Milton and other mill towns during the industrial revolution, it had to be included. Without its inclusion, the picture for twenty-first century folks would never be complete.

Part of her paper should conceive a solution, or a recommendation for improvement of the conditions, what they- whoever_ they_ are- could do to change things for the better. She had no clue at the moment where to start to fix things, or even if things could be fixed. There were so many issues to contend with, where was a person to start?

Workers blamed their conditions on poor wages, yet there was so much more to it. The problems assaulted from so many directions, from what the workers did with their wages, the large amounts of alcohol the men consumed, the number of children born in each home, even the lack of fresh fruits and veggies effected the health of the workers. With so many factors plaguing these people, where did one start to improve things when there was clearly no simple solution?

Her mind was so boggled with these thought she was shocked when she realized she was home already. That was the fastest walk from Princeton yet. She breezed in the front door, feeling overwhelmed by the issues facing these poor people, realizing that as a single woman in 1851 there was next to nothing she could to do solve the problems.

Richard popped his head out of his study to greet her, a deep frown marring his wrinkled face.

"What's wrong, Richard?" she asked, concerned something may have happened to Maria. She slipped off her gloves and set them and her school bag on the hallway table.

"Where have you been, Margaret?" His voice was edgy, gruff. She'd done something to anger him, but she couldn't imagine what.

"What do you mean, where have I been?" She felt herself getting defensive at his accusatory tone. She was an adult, and not _his _child. "It's Friday, Richard. I had tea with Bessy Higgins after school."

It was at that moment she happened to look over Richard's shoulder and noticed the tall John Thornton turn from the window toward them. _Oh my hell_. Richard's discomfort made sense now. Time to face the music. She bit her lip and looked down at her shoes, trying to put her thoughts in order.

By the time she looked up again, Mr. Thornton was standing directly in front of her. Lord, he was tall. And bristling with anger. "I'm pleased you made it home safely, Miss Bryce." It was a statement that needed no response. "Excuse me." He sidestepped her with a surprisingly injured look up on his face. He shoved the hat he'd been holding onto his head and soon there was no mistaking the slam of the front door as he left.

She closed her eyes and sighed. It hurt her heart to see his pain, and knowing she'd been the cause of his discomfort and worry made it worse. In fact, she wanted to throw up. She'd been so proud of herself for rejecting the carriage, thinking it made her a stronger woman for it, perhaps even taking him down a notch or two. Instead she felt horrible. His reaction was painful to her. Gah! She'd truly blundered this time.

"Margaret," Richard cut into her thoughts. "Mr. Thornton says that he told you he was sending his carriage for you. That you rejected the kindness, is that true?"

"Yes, Richard," she answered, contrite and struggling to meet his eyes.

"I see." He sounded like he was getting ready to scold. "Soon after we met, Miss Margaret Bryce, you told me to warn you if you erred in propriety, well, my dear, you certainly have." An angry Richard Hale was a sight to behold.

She ground her teeth together, holding back an angry retort, and very quietly said instead, "I didn't wish to have him orchestrating my activities."

"It was done as a thoughtful kindness to both you and to me, Margaret!" It was a quiet roar. "A _kindness_. Plain and simple and you rejected him! He has done his worldly best to help us settle here, Margaret. You not only rejected him, but you gave him cause to worry." Richard shook his head at her, much like her advisor Whitman Bell did when her stubbornness frustrated him. "Mr. Thornton arrived here as soon as his driver returned with the report that you were not at the school. Surely you can imagine what he and I thought might have happened to you."

"I specifically told him _not_ to send the carriage this afternoon. It was his error in believing that I would just comply with whatever he might tell me to do." Her raised voice drew the attention of Dixon who stepped into the hallway outside the kitchen to see what was amiss. "What right does he have to do that?"

"He did it as a favor to me, Margaret. A _kindness_ to me. Do men not show respect for women in your age? Do they not offer rides to work, to the shops? Do they not offer the protection men of this age are taught and encouraged to provide?"

"Yes, Richard they do." She stopped mid-stream and flashed a look to see if Dixon was still in the area. She wasn't. "Wait. What? My age?" She lowered her voice. "You know?"

"Adam Bell told me before he left that you too are a_ traveler_." His voice had dropped low, so only she could hear what he said.

"I see." Well, that was a relief. "Does Maria know?"

"No."

"If you want to tell her, you can," Margaret said.

He nodded. "I still wish for you to answer my question so I might understand your behavior, Margaret. Do women not accept such offers for rides in the twenty-first century? It seems like a generous thing to do, especially for a busy man such as Mr. Thornton."

"Some do. I just don't." She look away from him, feeling guilty and stupid. "Sometimes men expect certain things…" She shouldn't have said that. Damn her filter-less mouth!

"Expectations? You thought Mr. Thornton would expect… what precisely?" His voice was raised again. She was making a muck of this discussion. What a disaster!

She shook her head quickly. "Nothing. I was wrong, Richard. Dreadfully misguided. I'm sorry that I worried you and your friend. If you'll excuse me, please?" She need to go hide.

"Margaret," he called to her as her foot hit the bottom step of the staircase. She turned back to him, reluctant to hear what else he had to tell her. "You will send a note to apologize." A command, not a suggestion. "Write it now."

So this was what having a dad was like? "Yes, Richard, I will. Allow me to change my shoes first." What she wouldn't give for her _Nikes_. The blisters were what she deserved, having refused a ride.

She climbed the staircase slower than usual, frustrated by her behavior. How dumb she was! Trying to get the upper hand and prove her independence. Stupid. Once in her room, she dropped heavily on her bed and fell backwards, still feeling like she might vomit from the embarrassment of it all.

How could she face him again?

A few minutes later, Richard's heavy footsteps reverberated on the staircase, perhaps a gentle reminder she promised the note immediately. She sighed and sat up again. Leaning forward, she untied her shoes and slipped her feet out, pulling off her stockings, too. She wiggled her toes wincing at their tenderness.

Karma bit her in the butt, and she deserved every little pain she felt.

As she walked from the bed to her small writing desk, she paused to light a lamp. The waning light from the outside would soon disappear entirely, making it impossible to see much of anything in her attic room. She sat on her wooden chair, quill awkwardly dangling from her fingers, at a loss for what to write. Usually words flowed so freely from her mind, but swallowing her pride was a big pill to swallow.

After three crushed sheets of paper, she finally devised what she believed to be an appropriate apology. Richard was completely accurate when he claimed Mr. Thornton had done the gesture as a simple consideration, a kindness, and the sooner she accepted his motivation as benevolence instead of control, the happier everyone would be. Why fight against someone who rendered assistance? Because she was stupid. And she said as much in her note to him.

Margaret called to Dixon to help her change from the ugly mustard colored gown into one of the prettier ones she owned. After the quick change, she slipped on a fresh pair of stockings and her older, more comfortable shoes.

She would deliver the note to him in person. He deserved that respect. Slipping down the stairs, she told Dixon she would be out for an hour but not to hold dinner for her return. After hailing a passing cab, and a short ride across town, she soon entered the noisy, frenzied grounds of Marlborough Mills. The shift wasn't over yet, and the industriousness of the workers was an impressive sight to behold; everyone engaged in their tasks with a diligence that a master such as Mr. Thornton would surely expect.

Screwing up her courage, Margaret dismounted from the cab and climbed the daunting cement stairs that led to the mansion John Thornton called home. To say she was a nervous wreck might be an understatement. She rang the bell and then waited for their maid to answer the heavy wooden door.

After asking to see Mr. Thornton, Jane, the maid, led Margaret to the second floor drawing room and asked her to wait. She didn't sit, instead, she paced the room, breathing deeply through her nose, trying not to hyperventilate. How would he receive her? Would he reject her as she had done him?

As she paced the room, she attempted to divert her attention from the conversation that was to come, and instead focused on some decorations sparingly used in the room. The austerity of the space perfectly matched the mistress of the manor. As she bent forward to closely study a porcelain figure under a glass dome, she heard the door open. _Show time_.

"Miss Bryce, what brings you here at such an hour?" It was the voice of Mrs. Thornton, not her son that greeted her as she turned.

Margaret sighed. "I have come to eat humble pie, Mrs. Thornton." Margaret wasn't surprised the older woman was dressed all in black again. That's all Margaret had ever seen her wear. It went along well with her dragon persona.

"Excuse me?"

"I owe Mr. Thornton an apology," Margaret explained. "I have come to deliver it in person."

"I see." She looked Margaret up and down. Could she see how nervous Margaret was? "Well he is not here, Miss Bryce. He had a dinner engagement this evening."

"I thought perhaps that might be the case." Margaret nodded, but didn't feel much relief because she was still being studied by Mrs. Thornton. "I understand he is a busy man. I brought a written apology just in case." She reached into her bag and pulled out the handwritten apology, glad that she'd finished the thing despite the pain it caused. She handed it to Mrs. Thornton, and moved toward the door to leave, not wishing to spend a minute longer than necessary in the dragon's company. "Would you be so kind as to see that he gets it?"

"Have you eaten Miss Bryce?" Her voice was deep and gravelly, with a thicker Darkshire accent than Mr. Thornton's, but still polished, unlike Bessy and Nicholas'.

"Yes," she lied, "I have eaten. Thank you." She didn't want to be here a moment longer than she had to be.

Mrs. Thornton sat, which thwarted Margaret's plan for a quick get-away. "Perhaps you would care to visit, since you are here. Fanny just finished practicing her piano. The two of you could talk about music." She paused and nodded for Margaret to take a seat across from her. "Another concert is coming this Sunday evening. That is where you first met John, is it not? One of the concerts?"

"Yes." Margaret nodded. "Thank you for the invitation to stay, but the cab agreed to wait for me, so I must go."

The older woman laughed. "You expected a quick getaway following the apology, hmm?" The woman was rather brusque in her manners, stiff in her speech, the sound of laughter was unexpected.

"Yes, I suppose I did." Margaret took the seat on the chair across from Mrs. Thornton and smiled at the woman's deduction. "I dislike admitting when I am wrong."

"No one enjoys it Miss Bryce, but it shows maturity that you understand and accept when you must. The cab will wait." She paused and continued to look at Margaret. "Stay for a bit, would you? I have some questions I would like answered if you will be so kind?"

Margaret swallowed the grapefruit growing in her throat. This probably would not be good.

"What do you think of my son?" There was a loaded question if Margaret ever heard one.

"In what way do you mean, Mrs. Thornton?" _Answer a question, with a question. Good one, Mags!_

"In whichever way you care to describe, Miss Bryce."

Whoa Nelly, here we go. Who wants to have such a conversation with a guy's mom? Not Margaret! But now sitting across from a woman she referred to as a dragon, she had no choice.

"I think your son is a man of integrity," Margaret said. "He has showed great kindness toward the Hales and me as we've tried to get settled in this city. He's well respected by people in Milton, that I clearly saw when I first encountered him at the concert, and everywhere since. He seems to have a successful business, speaks of it as if he enjoys what he does with the mill."

"And?" Mrs. Thornton didn't move when she spoke. Even her lips hardly moved. It was odd.

"I'm sorry?" What else did she want from her?

"What else, Miss Bryce?" Mrs. Thornton shifted in her chair so she was leaning forward. "You fail to mention John's wealth, his looks. I should think a woman of your age would be interested in those attributes as well."

"It's a person's character that I am most interested in," Margaret said. "However, I will easily concede to you that your son is quite remarkably charismatic and based on your home and his position in the community, appears to be comfortably situated."

Mrs. Thornton nodded, a smile playing at the edge of her lips. Margaret must have answered how she wanted her to.

"Are you involved with a man in Oxford, Miss Bryce?" Her stare was unnerving, as direct as her questions.

"I'm not." _Honesty is the best policy_. Margaret had a pretty monumental thing to hide, but this wasn't it.

"In America, perhaps? You were, what? Twenty when you moved to England?" Margaret was impressed at how easily and accurately Mrs. Thornton judged her age.

"Twenty-one," she corrected. She wanted to expand that she graduated college early, that she earned a prestigious scholarship to study at Oxford, but of course she couldn't. "And, no, Mrs. Thornton, there was no man there either."

"With your looks and personality I find that difficult to believe." Her eyebrows raised as she challenged Margaret's answer.

"I am guessing there is a compliment in there somewhere." Margaret laughed, despite having been called a liar. "I haven't had time to socialize much, Mrs. Thornton. I have always had to work quite diligently in my studies, my writing and my research. I've supported myself since I was eighteen, through academic research and studies. That has eaten all my time."

"Well, if that is still the case, are you able to make time for my son? If he were to ask to formally court you, would you deny him?" Mrs. Thornton continued to challenge her, keeping her on her toes and making her question herself.

This was weird. It felt like Margaret was getting set up on a date by John's mother. In one was it was creepy, but maybe that's how things worked here? She supposed if she had a father, he'd be doing the same thing.

"I would be quite pleased to get to know him better, Mrs. Thornton." Complete truth there. "If that is simply in a friendship as he has begun to form with the Hales, or if he is interested in something more, I would welcome it." Well, that just slipped right out didn't it? _Nothing like keeping your cards close to your chest. Gah_!

"But you plan to go back to America?" Mrs. Thornton pressed.

Did she? Maybe not _America_, but _2014 Oxford_. Maybe. "At this time, I'm on my own. My parents are gone. The only person I consider close as family is Mr. Bell, and now perhaps the Hales. So, at present I have nothing set in stone for my future."

"So you would consider remaining here, in Milton?" The game of twenty questions continued.

Margaret nodded. "I was told by Mr. Bell, whom I consider quite wise, that I will simply know what to do when the time comes. I found it to be sage advice and so, I am continuing along, hoping in time I will understand what my purpose here is to be." She smiled, hoping the older woman would let it go now.

Mrs. Thornton stared at her, mute, and then suddenly nodded. "Thank you for easing my mind. You must understand, Miss Bryce, my son has not always had an easy life. As his mother, I always want to try to alleviate his worries." She stood, which encouraged Margaret to do the same. "You see, Miss Bryce, a mother's love is forever. Girls might come and go from his life, but I will always remain."

Margaret was troubled by what sounded like an underlying threat. Perhaps there had been a steady stream of women coming and going from the mill, unlike what Bessy led her to believe, and Mrs. Thornton did need to protect her son's heart. She shook off the comment.

"I'll be certain to give John your note." Mrs. Thornton lifted the hand that held the envelope. "I'm certain he will accept your apology. He's a fair man." Mrs. Thornton escorted her from the drawing room to the front door.

"Thank you, Mrs. Thornton." Margaret extended her hand to shake Mrs. Thornton's. "Have a nice evening."

She left the home, feeling oddly relieved after her interview with Mrs. Thornton. After the tough questions from the _dragon_, Margaret was fairly confident she could stand in front of a table of men in the near future as they dissected her dissertation. Climbing into the carriage, which _had_ waited for her, she recalled that Mrs. Wilkinson told her not to come to school the next day as she'd originally planned. Sighing, Margaret leaned back against the seat anxious for her weekend to begin.

It was very late when John arrived home, nearly one o'clock in the morning. He'd had dinner at the home of his banker, Charles Latimer, and then waited for the last train from Outwood Station to send off his cotton orders to his broker in Liverpool.

Having been in a foul mood when he arrived at the Latimer's, John was not in any better mood when he left. The whole of the evening, Latimer gently hinted that his daughter, Ann, who had just returned from finishing school in Switzerland, would be pleased to have John court her.

Really it was not so _gently_ hinted at. In fact, Latimer had somehow finagled John into taking Miss Latimer to the music concert on Sunday evening. If Charles Latimer's backing wasn't so vital to the running of his mill, John never would have agreed. As it was, he'd felt pushed into a corner. He needed to remain in Latimer's good graces as it looked like the economy of Milton was headed for a downturn, and the ever present threat of a strike loomed on the horizon. John needed the banker's support to remain as strong as they were now.

He trudged up the stairs and noticed the gas lamp had been left on for him in the drawing room. He stepped into the room, expecting to just turn off the lamp, and head on to bed, but instead he saw his mother sitting in her chair, waiting up for him. What had Miss Bryce said? She was his overseer? Perhaps Margaret was right.

"Hello, Mother." He gave her a smile and stopped in front of her chair. "You shouldn't have waited up for me."

"Did you have a nice dinner?" She set her bible aside.

"Yes." He nodded, although it wasn't completely true. "Their cook offered some French dishes this evening. It was different, anyway." He shrugged. He hadn't known what any of the dishes were and really didn't enjoy the taste, but he wouldn't admit that.

"Not hotpot, hmm?" She chuckled.

"I must be honest, Mother, I would have preferred a stew to the fancy concoctions the Latimer's provided this evening." He bent and kissed her cheek. "It's been quite a long day. Good night."

"John." Her voice stopped him and he turned back. "You had a visitor this evening."

He noticed her waving an envelope at him.

"Who?" He walked back to where she sat.

"Miss Bryce." She handed him the envelope. "She said she came to apologize. I assume that letter will tell you what she believes she did to offend you." Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline.

She was fishing for more information, information he wasn't comfortable sharing with her just yet.

He smirked. "Good night, mother."

He carried the letter with him, determined to read it after changing clothes and finishing his customary glass of brandy. So Miss Maggie had come to apologize, and he had missed her. She'd sent him on an emotional whirlwind that afternoon. At first, when he found out she hadn't accepted his carriage ride, he'd been furious with her. That anger turned to worry when he realized something could have happened to her, so then, he feared for her safety, imagining all sort of nasty scenarios, especially when it took so long for her to arrive home. When she finally did get home, he felt relief. She was safe. But then he was mad at her again for rejecting him.

And what about the impression he left on poor Mr. Hale? Surely the man couldn't know what thoughts were going through John's head as he paced the man's Crampton study. Hale wouldn't understand how attached John already was to Miss Bryce; the most unique, headstrong, obstinate, and beautiful woman he'd ever met.

John found it hard to admit it to himself.

The gaslights were on in his room when he entered. He closed the door behind himself and immediately shrugged out of his frockcoat, and then removed the dreaded cravat at his neck before kicking off his shoes and pouring himself a glass of brandy. Once the buttons of his shirt were flecked open, and the shirttails pulled free from his pants, he finally allowed himself the pleasure of reading her dainty handwriting. He slumped into his overstuffed leather chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him.

She'd written in pencil, which he found interesting. Did she not have ink? He laughed out loud. She was employed as a writer for Mr. Bell, surely he provided ink for her?

_Dear Mr. Thornton:_

_I must apologize for rejecting your carriage this afternoon. Sometimes when I finish with the small children my nerves are beaten up to the point where the only thing that calms me down is a long walk. They are a loud group; loving and boisterous, but most of all, exhausting! Please don't misunderstand. I really do like children, but after three hours with ten little wild ones, I find my energy completely drained._

_I told you earlier that I enjoy my independence. I must admit to you that at first I saw your carriage as a means of control or dominance and I instinctively bristled. However, after seeing your face as you left our home, I understood how badly I offended you, that you offered it only out of kindness. Fighting to be independent all the time eliminates the ability to accept consideration such as you offered with your carriage. I know, now, you sent it only out of concern. So, I must thank you for your kindness to me, and to Mr. Hale._

_I was pleased to share my school with you today. I hope you will come back. You are welcome any time._

_I hope we can next meet as friends, that you will forgive my stupidity? _

_I'm writing this in case I do not find you at home this evening, or I find myself too tongue-tied and unable to apologize properly. _

_Regards,_

_Margaret _

He smiled, picturing her as she wrote the letter. He read it a second time. She was a fine writer, he could understand why Bell had chosen her.

Swallowing her pride and admitting her mistake would have been difficult for a strong-willed woman like her. Yet, she did. She not only wrote him of her mistake, she visited his home in an attempt to apologize. He finished his glass of brandy and set the empty glass next to the decanter with a wide smile on his face.

_Yes my Maggie we will begin again as friends and hopefully end this tale as much, much more._


	9. Chapter 9

"_How all the other passions fleet to air,  
As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,  
And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love,  
Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy,  
In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.  
I feel too much thy blessing: make it less,  
For fear I surfeit."_

_Shakespeare ~~A Merchant of Venice~~ _

"Maria, I think the yellow will stain too quickly with the soot and smoke of Milton. Perhaps something in a darker shade? Red, maybe?"

"Red?" Maris Hale looked like she swallowed a lemon whole. "Margaret, _no one_ has red draperies. They are simply dismal. Draperies should be bright." She made an odd flounce with her hands in the air.

"But don't you wish to use the drapes to keep the light out?" Margaret was confused about the point of the drapes. Actually she'd never purchased drapes. All her apartments came with shades or mini-blinds and that was usually good enough for her.

"Well yes, but they should be cheery too." Cheery, happy draperies. Gotcha.

And so, Sunday afternoon progressed in much the same way, with Maria arguing against all the samples Margaret had picked up the day before when she went through the shops on New Street. Maria wasn't satisfied with her sitting room, and as she found herself in that room more than any other in the whole house, Maria believed she should at least like what she saw. Margaret offered to help her choose wall papers and draperies to make her more comfortable. She never imagined it would be this much work, though.

She'd made the offer to help Maria on Saturday, not knowing that after services this morning Mr. Thornton would ask her to _walk out_. At first, she was surprised, not really understanding what _walking out _really entailed. It was only after the intense look from his blue eyes that she understood he was asking her to _hang out_ this afternoon. She smiled to herself remembering how pleased she was when she understood the significance of his request. But then, she'd remembered she'd promised to spend the afternoon with Maria, and although the woman probably wouldn't have been offended if she asked to change the time, she didn't want to disappoint Maria.

Mr. Thornton had been clearly disappointed that she wasn't available, but asked if they could try for another day, and Margaret readily agreed. She remembered at that moment Mrs. Thornton's question of whether Margaret would make time for John. She would indeed, but she needed more than an hour's notice to do so, and so suggested later in the day, perhaps afternoon tea? He had to spend some time at the mill later that day, so it would have to be another day all together. She felt better, that she'd at least tried to accommodate the man. He'd walked with her and Mr. Hale home, declining the offer for tea. He'd kissed her hand, given her another intense look and small smile before leaving her standing on the porch steps with Mr. Hale.

"You're woolgathering again, girl." Maria tsked with her tongue.

"I'm sorry," Margaret said. Did she have a dreamy smile on her face? She felt light of heart and light headed, like she could giggle for an hour over nothing.

"Richard tells me that you are going out this evening." Maria said.

"Yes." Margaret smiled, remembering the invitation from Mrs. Wilkinson to attend the concert with her this evening. "It's a tribute to Felix Mendelssohn, to celebrate his birthday this month."

"Poor man passed far too young."

Margaret nodded. Her knowledge of German composers was sorely lacking. She knew he did the _wedding march_ but not much else.

"You'll have to wear that last beautiful dress you bought. Not the rose, as you wore that to the last concert and the same people will surely be there. Or not." Her brow creased into a frown. "I imagine this will be a more select crowd. Mendelssohn wouldn't be appreciated by everyone."

"So are we settled then? This for the drapes?" She held up a school-bus-colored yellow velvet. "And then this for the wall paper?" It was a shiny gold with a brown vining pattern through it.

"Yes, I suppose so. It's so hard to decide, and there are so few choices, but I believe this will make the room feel warm and welcoming." Maria sighed and rested back against her upholstered chair. 

"Good!" She smiled. "I'll go order everything tomorrow after school if you want? Or you and Dixon can go if you would rather?"

"I will go," Maria said. "You've helped out so much, Margaret. I'm not at all certain how we could have settled without you." Maria stood up and walked where Margaret was standing and gave her a tight hug. "Let's go look at that beautiful dress of yours. I can't imagine how green your eyes will look in it. Too bad Mr. Thornton won't be there to see you. Poor man having to work at the mill on a Sunday. It doesn't seem right."

"He hates his ledgers," Margaret chuckled. "If I were a glutton for punishment I would offer to do them for him. I doubt it would go any faster if I were doing them, but at least I enjoy doing them!"

"You should offer, dear. I've seen you do the house accounts. No doubt you'd have them done faster than him. Maybe he would hire you and then you wouldn't have to walk so far every day."

"I'd do it as a favor, not as a job," Margaret answered. "Besides, I like the walk and I like my students."

Together, they walked up the short flight of stairs and then into her attic space. The light was perfect this time of the day, shining brightly in the room. Maria took a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Well here it is." Margaret held up the dress Dixon had kindly pressed earlier that morning. "I do like the color. I wonder if it's too fancy? Last time I was dressed perfectly." She held the gown up against herself and swung her hips slightly to catch the shimmer in the fine taffeta fabric.

"Beautiful. I haven't had a gown that lovely in at least twenty years." She sighed. "We never had the need in Helstone. The parties we attended were nice but nothing as grand as what you will attend."

"Here is the rose colored one. Which do you think will suit best?" She placed the rose gown in front of her then, suggesting Maria compared the two.

"The green. You said Mr. Bell will be sending you things from Oxford, so you shouldn't worry about having too little to choose from soon. I'm sure he will be very generous."

"Well not too generous." Margaret hung up the rose again on the rod of her wardrobe. "I hardly need much."

"You never know." Maria winked. "If Mr. Thornton has decided to pay his attentions to you, you may be required to attend many such formal events. You'll need a much bigger wardrobe."

"Maria, I am but a teacher and writer." Margaret rolled her eyes. "That's it. I don't have any reason to believe Mr. Thornton is even remotely interested in me in any sort of romantic way. I think he likes to talk to me because I'm different. I'm interested in his mill, all of his world, really, so I suppose that makes me unique among most of the women here." But, she admitted to herself, she was still flattered he asked her to spend the afternoon with her.

"Would you ever consider staying, Margaret? Could you give up your 2014 world? What you describe seems so fantastical." She shook her head. "We must seem so dreadfully old fashioned and passé."

Margaret laughed. "But Maria, everything here to me is a new experience. The vocabulary is different, the customs are different. I just keep hoping I don't make a fool of myself by saying something ridiculous or so obviously not part of this time period."

"It's good you're a historian, or you would have had a much more difficult time adjusting."

Margaret just nodded, and drew the green taffeta dress back in front of herself as she looked in the full length standing mirror.

"Green it is." She smiled broadly.

"Fine choice. Shall we go see what's in the kitchen for dinner?"

It was just after five. She would join the Hales for a light dinner, Dixon had the evening off, and then get ready for the concert. Mrs. Wilkinson was picking her up at half past six sharp. Maria offered to help her with her hair, saying that she and her sister used to do it when they were Margaret's age, before both married and settled apart.

Despite missing an afternoon getting to know John better, she had enjoyed the time with Maria and was looking forward to the concert that evening. Meeting with Mrs. Wilkinson outside of the school day might help them grow closer together, and build a stronger school. All in all she had enjoyed one of the best days in Milton so far.

Miss Ann Latimer arrived with her parents, and after a very brief introduction, they turned her over to John. Lord, she was young, just over eighteen, a full half his age. She was attractive, he would allow himself to admit that. Wealthy, for certain, and well-connected in Milton, but that is where her appeal stopped. She was one of those giggly girls that Fanny associated with, the type that irritated him so much it made his teeth hurt. Empty headed, with nothing worthwhile to offer the world. Perhaps in time she would mature into a sensible young lady, but it wasn't in his interest to wait around for that possibility.

For her father's sake, he would be attentive, but only this evening. His mind was otherwise occupied by a young lady at home in Crompton choosing fabrics and papers with her housemate that evening. He wished Margaret was with him instead of this child.

After his first meeting with Margaret at the last concert, he'd watched her closely for the rest of the evening, pleased by her manners and grace. She'd enjoyed the music, he'd seen the light in her face as she enjoyed the singing. He wasn't a huge fan of these concerts, but to bring pleasure to her, he'd agree to attend every concert for the rest of his life… damn where had that come from? The rest of his life?

Miss Lattimer disengaged herself from his arm and stepped away to meet someone Fanny wanted to introduce her to, allowing several of the other mill masters and owners to surround him. As usual, they wanted to compare the latest price for raw cotton and talk to him about the level of production at his mill, the largest in Milton. He was always cordial, although several of the men he found annoying and obtuse.

"Now there is a fine looking new face in the crowd." Slickson whispered under his breath to Trunesdale standing next to John. "Would you have a look at her?"

John didn't turn immediately, thinking he could very well be describing the woman he was

escorting that evening. Neither Slickson nor Trunesdale would have met Ann Latimer yet. A quick glance to his left, and he realized Fanny and Miss Lattimer were not in Slickson's sights. Slickson was looking over John's shoulder, not next to him.

"She's remarkable. Look at that smile." Slickson, continued, a look of awe upon his jowly face. "I wonder who she is. Do any of you know? Oh, damn, she just turned her back to us."

John finally gave in and turned, just curious what sort of woman could have Slickson so excited. He was older than John by a year, a bachelor, and very much on the hunt for a bride.

At first John couldn't see the woman's face, only the back of her head, yet something seemed familiar. Her companion, and older, regal looking grey-haired woman turned slightly to greet a man, and he realized it was the woman from Margaret's school. He fought to recall the woman's name, remembering only that it began with a W.

His breath caught in his throat when the other woman turned around and he realized why she was so familiar. Margaret was here this evening! Garbed in a deep green dress that flattered her slight height and slender figure, she was just as Slickson said. "Remarkable." He hadn't meant to say it out loud, but he did.

The teacher from her school said something in her ear and she smiled, then laughed quietly, the joy lighting her face made him catch his breath again. He was enthralled, unable to move or realize that there was anyone in the room other than him and Margaret. She turned her head, as if she could sense his eyes on her, and suddenly their eyes met. She smiled broadly, causing his heart to skip another beat. Intense pleasure circulated through his body as she started to move toward him. He smiled back at her, ready to welcome her greeting. Miss Latimer, however, chose that minute to rejoin him, threading her arm under his and resting her hand on his forearm. Fanny was quick to follow.

He watched as Margaret's smile faded, her skin visibly paled and after tipping up her chin in indication of indifference, she turned away from him, retraced her steps, and again gave her full attention to her teaching friend.

He'd botched it again. He believed he'd overcome her disgust with him from the altercation at the mill, but now she thought… He'd asked her just that day to _walk out_ and now he was here with another woman. What she must think of him!

"Oh _that _woman?" Fanny's voice was shrill. Slickson had obviously asked Fanny about Margaret. "Mr. Slickson that is Miss Margaret Bryce. She has recently come up from Oxford. She works for Mr. Bell at Oxford, doing research and writings and such."

"How tedious. Writing?" Ann mocked. "She must have need for employment, or else I shouldn't think a woman would do such work? Who would wish to read what a woman might think?"

John glanced down at the woman hanging on him. He would certainly be interested in reading what that particular woman wrote. Moreover, he wanted to read Jane Austen's words, too.

"Have you read Jane Austen, Miss Latimer?"

"Of course!" she answered.

"You do realize that Jane Austen is a woman?" He sounded condescending and he supposed he was trying to be. "So, you obviously _are _interested in what women have to say."

"Those are novels, Mr. Thornton. Miss Bryce writes about things, not made up stories." She made a rather ugly face and swatted at the air.

"So fiction is appropriate for women to write, but not reality?"

"Oh why must we talk of such things?" She giggled as she gripped his arm tighter.

He sighed and closed his eyes for a minute before making eye contact with Slickson who winked at him.

"I think Miss Bryce is well situated," Fanny answered, with a shrug. "She has lovely gowns. The one she wears tonight I would love to own."

"I don't think she would appreciate being discussed in public by you Fanny," John warned with a stern glance.

"I'm hardly telling a secret, John." Fanny continued. "She's been to the house for lunch with Mother. Seems like a nice girl, a bit bookish, I suppose."

"Care to introduce me, Thornton?" Slickson asked quietly. "It would seem you are acquainted?"

"Not tonight," he answered. He turned away from her, the knowledge that he may well have ruined it for himself again too painful to bear.

"You must invite her to the _Master's Spring Dinner_," Slickson suggested. "Just having her at your table smiling would be enough of a table setting for me." Slickson poked John's ribs with his elbow.

John wanted to punch the fool but reined in his temper and ground his teeth together instead.

"Shall we find our seats, Margaret?"

Margaret was relieved when the time came for them to be seated. She'd been introduced to a number of gentleman of Laura Wilkinson's acquaintance, but she wouldn't remember any of them. Her stomach had formed a knot the size of Texas when she saw the woman glued to John's arm.

"I take it you don't know the woman he's with?" Laura whispered as she led them to the two seats at the front of the hall.

"Nope," she answered.

"Nope?" Laura laughed, a deep chuckle that made her face look ten years younger. "That's quite an answer."

How dare he ask her out that afternoon only to appear tonight with another woman! He said he had mill business to see to. _Mill business, my ass_. Why had he bothered to even ask to spend time with her when he had a date with another woman this very evening? Men weren't supposed to be like this during this time period. Were they?

As she and Laura found their seats, she decided that this evening was his second strike. The beating at the mill was a huge first, and now… Well hell, he and Mr. Bell were both players. Margaret was a relatively attractive, academic geek, plain and simple. Someone of sound mind, who never sought attention from men, and here she'd been played. She wanted to laugh at her stupidity. She thought him to be genuinely interested in her, but obviously he had other fish on the line. She had been just one of many.

"I had the impression he was interested in you, Margaret?" she whispered from the corner of her mouth. "It seemed he was very attracted to you when he came to the school to visit?"

"Yes. I thought so also. He even asked me to walk out with him this afternoon." She snorted quietly and looked away from Laura's concerned eyed. "Obviously, I misread the situation."

She'd thought he'd been nervous that morning when he asked for time this afternoon! Nervous! Ha, the joke was surely on her, wasn't it? She decided, as the lights lowered for the pianist to begin the Mendelssohn pieces, that there would be no chance for a third strike. Maybe that's what his mother meant about making time for him? If Margaret couldn't make time, he could easily find another who would. She silently shook her head and settled herself in for a long evening of piano.

"Don't worry, Margaret." Laura patted her hand. "There are far more men than women in Milton, and with your looks and bearing, you should have no trouble finding someone to love you."

"I'm here for research purposes only," Margaret told her resolutely.

Laura snorted. "I'd like to research that Thornton man." She laughed again, causing Margaret to smile. "Don't give up on him so easily, lass. He's a fine catch, you know."

The women had no idea that John was staring at them from the back of the room, that he was silently berating himself for hurting Margaret, and in turn hurting himself. He wanted to stand up, walk to where they sat and sit in the empty seat next to Margaret. If Latimer weren't his banker, if he didn't need to rely on him so heavily for temporary loans for the mill, he would do just that, tittle-tattle be damned. If he realized nothing else this evening, he realized she was _the one._ How the hell had that happened so quickly? He'd never been in love before, never even desired a woman before, and now… and now he had both, but he'd made such a muck of things she'd probably never speak to him again.

"Did you say something, Mr. Thornton?" Miss Latimer looked up to him, batting her eyelashes and spreading her eyes open wide, as if that was the way to capture his heart.

"No," he responded, before returning his attention to the back of Margaret's head.

"You don't talk much, do you?" she asked, trying to draw his attention once again.

"Not when I should be listening to the music," he whispered, perhaps a bit more brusque than required, but really, these seats were not inexpensive and the music was quite good. Even Fanny was sitting still, apparently enthralled with the music. His sister would never be close to proficient at the piano, despite her hours plunking at the keys.

"How old are you, Mr. Thornton?" And she still continued to speak.

He wondered if he should be offended by such a question. There was only one reason she could be asking it, to prove that he was _old_. Too old for her attentions. At least that was his hope.

"I will turn seven and thirty my birthday next." He took perverse pleasure in watching a frown develop.

"That old, hm?" She flushed as if she realized what she'd said. "Oh, dear me, I am sorry. I just didn't realize…until we sat and I could see your face clearly… that is… you have _wrinkles_." She whispered the last bit as if it were a big secret to him, as if he didn't look in the mirror as he shaved daily. He wanted to laugh, but instead, sat up straighter and tipped his chin up in a display of pride.

Ann spoke not another word to him the rest of the evening, and when he returned her to her parents at the end of the night, she graciously told him good evening.

John hoped to catch Margaret before she and the teacher left. He saw them, started to walk their way, even, but paused when he saw who she was speaking with. Charlie Morris, Latimer's main competition in the banking field, was fawning all over her.

A good five years younger than John, wealthier than John, Morris would be a good catch for Margaret. He wondered what they were speaking about. Margaret wasn't smiling, rather her facial expression was flat and she appeared to be listening more than speaking. Jealousy, a foreign emotion to John stabbed him in the gut. Charlie Morris of all people!

"John shall we go speak with Miss Bryce and her friend?" Fanny suggested. "Is that Charlie Morris talking with her?"

"Yes, it's him and I don't think now would be a good time." He'd seen enough and already felt lower than a skunk for accompanying Miss Latimer this evening after asking Margaret to spend the afternoon with him. What she must think of him! He'd not soon forget the look of disgust she wore after seeing Miss Latimer latch herself to his arm. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes," she answered.

He grabbed their coats, helped her shrug into hers and then once they located their carriage, he helped her up. He glanced over his shoulder a final time, hoping for just one more look at Margaret before going home. That green gown suited her beautiful figure perfectly. Really anything the woman wore looked remarkable on her.

"John, let's go. I'm tired!" Fanny whined.

He climbed up and tapped the top to get them on their way home. He didn't bother to scold Fanny for whining. Twenty years of it made him virtually immune to it.

"Mr. Watson and I spoke for some time," she said.

"Is that right?" Watson was one of John's main competitors. It was rather obvious the other man was smitten with Fanny. "Did you enjoy your conversation?"

"I believe so," she said. "Is he as well situated as we are?"

"I would say so, yes," John answered. "Has he asked to see you?"

"Yes. But I said I couldn't until he spoke with you."

"I see." John knew this day would come sometime. He and his mother had spoken of it not a week ago, when John first realized Watson's interest in his baby sister. "And if he asks for your attentions, shall I say yes?"

"Yes," she answered quickly. "He seems quite tolerable."

"He's older than I am, Fanny," John warned. "You know he had a wife that passed some five or six years ago?"

"No!" She sounded surprised. In the dark he couldn't tell. The gaslights didn't give off enough light. She switched topics, discussing the music, claiming she would go to the store the very next day and purchase some sheet music so she might learn to play some of his music.

"I imagine he is no longer in mourning for her," John added. He remembered the two of them together, always wondered how well they suited. She looked a little like Fanny, slender and blonde.

"After five years I should hope he's no longer in mourning!"

If John loved his wife, he had a feeling no matter how many years happened to pass, he would still miss her. He thought then of their mother who still wore black in respect for their father's ill-fated passing.

"You know," she paused, "I believe Miss Bryce was the loveliest woman there this evening. Well, except for me, of course. I don't think Miss Latimer with all her polish even held a candle to her."

He recognized the signs of a trap and he wasn't willing to fall into it.

"Don't you think, John?" She sounded so innocent, he held back a chuckle.

"She looked fine, Fanny." He tried to sound bored to keep her off the trail. Fine, indeed. Gorgeous, spectacular, jaw-dropping were all better adjective for the short little stubborn American girl.

"Well you didn't even bother to say hello to her." It sounded like an accusation.

"I was escorting Miss Lattimer this evening," he explained. "It would hardly have been appropriate to leave her to meet with Miss Bryce." It was a weak excuse, but he could hardly tell Fanny that he was worried about what his banker would say if he had done so. He hated being bound by someone else.

"Ann thinks you're old."

He chuckled. "I _am_ too old for the likes of her."

"Well that's a relief." Fanny sighed. "She was worried you were so enamored with her that you would force her father to make her marry you."

"Besotted after mere hours. As if that were possible." He chuckled, and then caught himself, realizing that was precisely how it had happened with Margaret nearly three weeks earlier at the same venue. "Would marriage to me be such a great tragedy, Fanny?"

"Well… no…" She studied him. "I think the right woman would be pleased with you."

"The right woman?" He laughed again. "Be certain to tell me if you encounter such a woman."

"Well I think we have," she said, sounding surprised and then laughing. "I think Miss Bryce might just be as boring as you."

He rolled his eyes heavenward and looked out the window into the dark night. _As boring as me_. How interesting that John found Margaret to be the most _exciting _woman he'd ever met.

Tuesday, John arrived promptly at the Hale's home at seven for his lessons. The day before, he fought the urge to see Margaret, going so far as to walk to the courtyard with the intention of calling for the carriage to visit her at the school.

He felt a need to explain why he'd been in attendance with Ann Latimer, just hours after asking Margaret to spend time with him. He didn't want her to have the wrong impression of him, and he was almost certain she did. Instead of visiting her, he'd gone back to his office and buried himself in paperwork. Tonight he would see her, and hopefully have the opportunity to explain his behavior.

Dixon, their housekeeper, was quick to answer his knock and showed him immediately into the study where Mr. Hale was waiting for him. They had a pleasant meeting, studying for well over an hour. John was enjoying the opportunity to stretch his brain, but there came a time where he knew he could not concentrate for a moment longer. It was precisely that minute when Mrs. Hale walked in, carrying the tray of tea and some cakes.

"Mr. Thornton, how good to see you, sir," she said. She sat across from him, and began to prepare his tea.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hale." He smiled gently at the woman. She looked better than she did the last time he was there. "How do you do this evening?"

"I am quite well." She handed him a cup and then prepared one for her husband.

He wanted to ask where Margaret was, but couldn't without being too obvious in his interest of her. He shifted uncomfortably on the chair.

"You must try the apple cake." Mrs. Hale pointed to the pastry on the tray. "Margaret made it this afternoon after she returned from school. It's very moist."

He missed husband and wife exchanging looks.

"I shall be pleased to do so. I have a bit of a sweet tooth." He reached forward and took a piece of cake. "My sister enjoys anything with chocolate, although I prefer fruits myself."

"I understand you took in the concert on Sunday?" Mr. Hale asked him after a sip of tea. "Did you enjoy it?"

"It was not the best Milton has ever offered," John answered. The cake was delicious and he found himself reaching for another piece. "I prefer singing to piano. My sister tries to play and I fear she ruins the experience for everyone in the house." He smiled.

"Margaret would agree with you. Oh! About the concert that is, not Miss Thornton's playing," Mrs. Hale said with a gentle smile.

"Is she away this evening?" Damn. He'd asked.

"No, she's home," Mrs. Hale answered. Apparently not interested in elaborating at all, she sat back in her seat and chewed on her cake.

"I see," he said, but he really didn't. Where in the blazes was she? She should be here so he could apologize. He should have written her a letter as she had for him, but this situation was different and they needed to talk face to face.

"I was sorry your mother couldn't take tea with us yesterday," Mrs. Hale said.

"Fanny was a bit under the weather," John responded. "My mother was worried it might be contagious, so she thought it better for them to stay home."

"I do hope Miss Thornton is faring better today?"

"Yes, she seemed to be at dinner." He nodded. "Thank you."

"Please let them know we'd be happy to receive them at their earliest convenience," Mrs. Hale smiled at him.

"I'll let her know." He stood. "Oh, I almost forgot." He reached in his pocket and pulled out an envelope. "My mother and I are hosting the Spring Master's Dinner. It's an annual formal affair we Milton Masters have. I wish to invite you. It's a week Friday."

He handed the invitation to Mrs. Hale.

"How wonderful." John was pleased with the joy on her face. A clergyman was probably not invited often to such affairs.

"I must be going, now. Mr. Hale, I thank you for the lesson." He put on his coat. "I shall return Thursday if it pleases you?"

"Yes, John," Mr. Hale said. "Tuesdays and Thursdays will be perfect."

"I'll show myself out." John bowed to each of the Hales and walked out of the drawing room, down the short flight of stairs and out the door. Margaret was avoiding him. He knew it instinctively, and it bothered him greatly. She was also a fine baker. If it hadn't looked like gluttony, he would have had another little piece of apple cake.

"Have a seat Roger, I'm just finishing the remainder of your lesson for today. I'm sorry I'm behind, but I had other business to take care of last night." Margaret shifted on her chair, hardly paying attention to the boy that was standing behind her.

When he didn't join her at the table, she turned, thinking she'd imagined the noise of footsteps.

"Mr. Thornton!" She stood abruptly, disrupting the papers she was writing on. "I thought you were Roger Marker!"

"Yes, I heard." He smiled softly. "Since I was not Roger, I dared not take his seat."

"That's the boy I teach math," she explained. Why did she feel so breathless? "Why are you here?"

"You invited me," he answered simply.

"I did?" She couldn't remember. Of course she couldn't think much at the moment. He was standing too close, close enough to smell the leather of his gloves and something else, a musky sandalwood fragrance.

"You did." He took her hand in his. He put his thumb in the middle of her palm and slowly caressed it in circular motions that turned her to mush. "When you wrote me your apology."

"Oh, yes. I did." She nodded, and then swallowed. Since when did hand holding affect her in such a way?

"You wouldn't come down for tea last night, so I had to call in this invitation," he explained.

"I was busy," she told him. It wasn't a complete lie. She had been busy.

"Too busy for tea?"

"Mr. Bell sent some of my things from Oxford and included a letter. He wishes to see my progress when he comes next week. I'm afraid I haven't gotten much accomplished yet."

"Might I be of service?" he asked.

"Perhaps," she answered. "I just have to sit down and write. Sometimes, it's difficult." She gently pulled her hand away and sat back down. He joined her at the table.

"Will you listen to me for a few moments?" His eyes were begging her, so she could hardly refuse.

She nodded silently.

"We agreed to speak plainly with each other, so I shall." He reached forward and tipped her chin up so she would look at him, and then held it there. "Sunday I was very disappointed not to spend the afternoon with you. Miss Maggie, I find you to be the most beautiful, interesting woman I have ever met, and in truth, when I am not with you, I find myself thinking of you."

She swallowed back a catty retort about finding someone else rather quickly, but being that he was opening up his heart to her, she figured that would be a bad thing to say.

"Friday evening I found myself in an awkward situation." He shifted on his chair, moved his hand from her face and nestled her hand between both of his before crossing his legs. "I had dinner that night with my banker, Charles Latimer." He sighed. "Quite frankly, the man holds the mill's solvency in his hands. He asked… no that's not quite right." He shook his head. "He _instructed _me to escort his daughter to the concert on Sunday. Margaret, I can't afford to lose his favor, so I felt I needed to do as he asked."

"Of course," she answered quietly with a nod. She loved the way Margaret sounded coming from his lips. "You had no reason not to."

"Did you not hear what I said moments ago?" His voice rose. "It's _you_ I wished to be with Sunday evening. No one else. You looked stunning, and it took all I had in me not to leave Miss Latimer and be with you."

"I would have liked that," she admitted. If he was being so blunt she would be, too. "I would have very much liked to share the whole day with you." She looked down where their hands were clasped. "I'm truly sorry I couldn't spend Sunday with you, but Mrs. Hale has been so depressed, and I thought it was the least I could do for her. Then I saw you with that young girl and I thought you lied to me about having mill business that prevented you from coming later in the afternoon. Mr. Thornton, I hate to admit it, but I was jealous of the attention you were giving Miss Latimer."

"You thought that I liked to be surrounded by woman?" He laughed. "If you only knew how far from the truth that is." He shook his head and laughed some more.

"I really don't know you well, Mr. Thornton." She looked back down at his hands holding hers. His hands were large and strong. Hers was pale and slender. She liked his touch, definitely wanted more of it.

"I hope to change that, Margaret." He reached forward and tipped her chin up again. That was an odd habit of his, but one she kind of liked. No man had ever done that before. "Please don't hide from me when I come Thursday for lessons."

"I wasn't hiding," she said. "I have a paper to prepare for Mr. Bell."

"I missed you," he whispered. "I'm sorry about Sunday evening's misunderstanding. Will you forgive me?"

"Have you forgiven me for the carriage?"

"I certainly have." He nodded. "But, if it happens to arrive someday in the future to bring you home, with you take it?"

She smiled. "Yes. I understand you did it because you were concerned for me. So, yes, I will accept your kindness in the future. In whatever form it may take." There she went flirting again. Oh well. She liked this dude.

"Will you go for a ride with me on Sunday after services?" he asked.

"Yes. I would like to. But only if you agree to come to the house afterward and read my paper? I want to make certain it captures Milton properly, and I know of no one else who I can trust to read it and give me an honest appraisal."

"I would be honored to do so," he answered.

"Thank you." She smiled.

"However, if I do that for you, I must ask a favor in return," he said quietly. He cleared his throat, and he looked sort of nervous as he had on Sunday when he asked her to walk out with him. "Next Friday there is a Spring Mill Master dinner at my home. My mother and I will be hosting, but I would like… that is… would you come as my particular guest?"

"_Particular_ guest?" Yet another odd phrase. As his date?

"My… partner? We will attend as a couple..." He stumbled and looked nervous.

"Oh." She smiled broadly. "Yes, I would be happy to. Thank you."

"It's a formal affair," he explained. "Mother arranged music for dancing. I think the dress you wore Sunday would be quite suitable." He smiled gently.

"I couldn't wear that one again," she chuckled. "I'll find something else." Mr. Bell had been quite generous with clothing in his box. "Do you dance?"

"I do," he nodded. "I suppose I shall leave it to you to decide how well."

She laughed, and suddenly the grin on his face was quite broad.

"Friends?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered with a wide smile. She leaned forward, hoping he would understand the cue to kiss her.

"Miss Maggie, I'm so very sorry I'm late." Roger came crashing through the door, startling them both, forcing them apart. "Oh excuse me! I didn't know you had company, ma'am."

"Roger Marker." She chuckled at the tall, gangly young man. "This is Mr. John Thornton of Marlborough Mills," she introduced them.

"_The_ John Thornton? Miss Maggie, you know John Thornton?" The boy was so excited she thought his head might explode.

Mr. Thornton stood to greet the student. He stuck out his hand and Roger quickly accepted it.

"You know my name, do you?" Mr. Thornton asked, a grin lighting his face.

"Who in Milton doesn't?" Awestruck, Roger wouldn't stop shaking Mr. Thornton's hand.

Margaret laughed at the boy's enthusiasm.

"Miss Maggie you never said you knew him."

"I didn't know you would care, Roger." She laughed at the little hero-worshipper.

"Miss Bryce tells me you are interested in engineering," Mr. Thornton said.

"She spoke of me to you?"

"She showed me some of the math you are learning," John told him. "It's quite impressive."

"Thank you! And, yes, I do want to be an engineer. I believe with the railroad, but I'm interested in machinery, too."

"Keep up your studies, lad, and you'll have many opportunities open to you." Mr. Thornton turned to look over his shoulder at Margaret and gave her a warm smile. "Miss Bryce is a fine teacher."

"She is," Roger agreed. "I've learned more from her in two weeks than I did in 6 months from my last tutor."

"Miss Bryce, I'm afraid I must leave you now, I have a meeting soon with a buyer or I would stay and watch your teaching skills in practice." He smiled at her, and then kissed the back of her hand. "I shall see you tomorrow?"

"Yes. Tomorrow evening." She smiled as he bowed toward her and walked out the door.

Oh, Lord how did she ever think he wasn't handsome? Bessy would surely get an earful that afternoon!


	10. Chapter 10

"_I used to think maybe you love me, now baby I'm sure  
And I just can't wait till the day, when you knock on my door  
Now every time I go for the mail box, gotta hold myself down  
'cause I just can't wait till you write me, you're coming around_

[Chorus:]  
I'm walking on sunshine (whoa oh)  
I'm walking on sunshine (whoa oh)  
I'm walking on sunshine (whoa oh)  
And don't it feel good (HEY!) Alright now  
And don't it feel good (HEY!) Alright now  
All right now yeah! (HEY!)

I used to think maybe you love me, I know that it's true  
And I don't wanna spend all of my life just waiting for you (just waiting for you)  
Now I don't want you back for the weekend, not back for a day, no, no, no  
Baby I just want you back and I want you to stay"

_Katrina and The Waves ~~Walking on Sunshine~~_

Making her way to Princeton on her way home, Margaret was on cloud nine. A smile had permanently etched itself on her face. She had not one, but two dates lined up with John. Problem was, she didn't know how to dance these formal dances, and she had only a short time to learn. She could waltz at least, so maybe she could limit herself to that dance. She needed to find another dress. Perhaps Mr. Bell had stuck one in the trunk. She hadn't dug through it thoroughly yet.

When she reached Bessie's home, she heard loud male voices yelling at each other. She knocked and waited only a split second before Nicholas Higgins threw open his door for another disheveled man to walk out of the house. She stepped aside for the other man to get by, and when Nicholas waved her wordlessly inside, she went.

"Is there a problem?" Margaret asked. There was far too much commotion for this time of the day at the Higgins' house. Nicholas was never home at this time of day. Surely something awful must have happened.

"Tell her, Da," Bessy demanded. She was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Margaret couldn't identify the scent.

Margaret took a seat at their weathered table, believing the news she was about to hear would be of a tragic nature.

"There's likely to be a shut down at the mills," Nicholas admitted, not quite meeting Margaret's eyes. "We strike Friday."

"Just Hamper's?" Bile rushed up through her throat, threatening to spill out. This was a horrible turn of events for all of Milton. Her hand covered her stomach as if that alone would prevent her from vomiting.

"No, lass," he whispered. "All the mills be shutting down by Friday. Hamper's turned out this afternoon."

"But why?" Margaret cried. "Can you not come to some sort of agreement with the Masters? Surely a solution could be found."

"The masters refuse to meet wage needs, but they keep getting richer," Nicholas sneered and the tipped back a shot glass of what looked like brandy. "That man," he pointed to the door with his glass, "_Boucher_, that just left. His family is desperate, we all need more money, but the masters just think we're stupid and we're being greedy."

"So, why strike if you are already in bad shape?" she asked. Logically, why give up money when it was so scare and so necessary? "Won't it be worse for you without work, without pay coming in?"

"What choice do we have, Miss Margaret?" Nicholas sat with her at the table. "They don't listen to us, there's nothing else we can do!"

"Surely if you would speak to the masters, surely you could come to some good conclusion?" This sounded so horrible. How long could a strike go on, and what would it do to Milton and its people? "Do they know of your intentions?"

"They do, and they care not of our opinion," he said. "It's done. Friday at ten minutes 'til eight all of Milton shuts down until our demands are met."

"I'm sorry to hear this Nicholas." She patted his hand. "I should go." She stood, picked up her cloak, nodded to Bessy and left the home.

As she trudged home, a startling dismay encircled her heart. Dismay so great she considered chucking it all and going back home to 2014 Oxford. It would be easy, really. She would hop a train to Oxford, find Mr. Bell, have him do his hokey pokey and bam she would be back home.

God, what if it didn't work? What if she would be stuck here forever? Plus, she couldn't leave at this pivotal time in Milton. Living through a strike and its consequences would be priceless, despite the pain she would undoubtedly soon witness- both from the workers and from John Thornton.

Oh my hell, what John would do if his workers walked out on him?

Friday was a tough day for John Thornton and Marlborough Mills. Really, since returning home from his most enjoyable visit at Miss Bryce's school Wednesday things had slid downhill quickly.

The buyer he met with on Wednesday afternoon was unable to commit to any further orders for the following month, putting him in a slight bind with excess inventory. There were other buyers of course, but he'd been banking on the immediate purchase and payment, which would have been sufficient funding to pay off the note at the bank and would relieve the enormous burden sitting squarely upon his shoulders.

Thursday, before end of the business day, the committee men, the union leaders, had the courtesy to warn him that at closing time Friday, the hands would cease working until their demands for higher wages were met. Of course they'd not been as polite as that, but they'd gotten their point across. John was not a man easily manipulated and their threats went unanswered.

"Have the hands turned out, then?"

John turned toward his mother's quiet question. There was a fierceness in her speech, a firm resolution. She didn't run the mill, but its success or failure was shared by her equally. She had been his partner, his confident, and his support since his father's passing. Only she could understand the loss and frustration he felt at that moment, staring out into a courtyard that would soon fill with men and women leaving on what could well be the final shift at Marlborough Mill for some time.

"Hamper's hands are out since Wednesday, Slickson's and Trunesdale's turned out Tuesday," he said quietly. "Tonight they leave us at closing bell."

"Fools!" she cried. "They do not understand the business as you do. They see only that their shilling buys less liquor to pour down their idiot throats!"

"I'll not give in, mother," John pledged. "No matter what, I cannot concede to their wishes."

"Nor should you!" She shook her head and sat heavily on a chair. "Hire some Irish. They'll come cheap and do fine work. It'll teach your foolish hands they cannot control you. _You_ are _their_ Master. _They_ must answer to _you_, not the opposite." As she accentuated her words, she pointed at the air.

"I will call upon Irish if they are needed." He said. "I have a man to contact should it become necessary. I don't need the extra expense just now."

"I regret we're giving the Spring Master's Dinner then."

"I do also, not for the expense, but because I expect there will be unusual claims on my time, far too much on my time especially if the Irish must be called in." He came to sit by her side.

"I've received notice that all, even the Browns if you can imagine, plan to attend." She smiled. John realized that although she didn't like to socialize, she was known as one of the finest hostesses in Milton. "What of the Hales? Did they accept your invitation?"

"Yes." He nodded and then allowed a grin to snake across his face. "Miss Bryce accepted my personal invitation, as well."

Her eyes widened. "My numbers will be off, John."

"Mr. Bell is coming," he answered quietly.

"Of course, he'll even us out." She nodded. "When did you ask Miss Bryce to come? You didn't go to the Hale's last night."

"No, I didn't," he answered with a shake of his head. "I couldn't. How could I with this foul business brewing?"

"I'm not being critical, John," she said with a roll of her eyes. "I merely asked when you had an opportunity to see Miss Bryce."

"I went to her school on Wednesday morning," he said.

"I had no idea."

That was a shock. He laughed, remembering Margaret's sneeze comment.

"What's so funny?" she asked him

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just something I remembered someone saying."

"You like her, then?" she asked quietly. "She's become more than just a pretty face?"

"Oh, yes." He couldn't put into words what he thought of Margaret. His thoughts had begun to stray from admiration of her looks and her intellect to improper imaginings. He couldn't very well admit that to his mother.

"You thought she'd not give you the time of day?"

He smiled again and looked away, toward the dancing fire in the fireplace, remembering how devastated she'd looked when Miss Latimer had rejoined him, hanging off his arm, at the concert.

"She saw me with Miss Latimer at the concert and it was rather obvious she felt some distress seeing me with another woman." He smiled, wider, feeling a warmth spread over him.

"Well, that is something, then." His mother shifted on her chair. "Perhaps I shall like this woman after all." 

"I wish you would try, at least," he requested. "Even if she and I turn out to not suit, I enjoy my lessons with Mr. Hale and I suppose they will be connected for some time."

The end of the day whistle blew.

"It's time, mother," he said quietly, the pleasure he felt moments before as he thought of Margaret, were replaced again with frustration and anger.

He stood again, and walked to the window which overlooked the courtyard. Several people looked up as they walked through the mill gates, perhaps seeing him and his mother outlined through the glass pane.

"Fools," she cursed, and then put a comforting hand on the back of his shoulder.

"All will be well, Mother," he soothed, although he wasn't certain it was true. "We can wait it out."

"They'll be back, hat in hand, in days." She turned to face him, poking a finger into his chest. "Mark my words, they will be."

Margaret paced back and forth in front of her Crampton fireplace as John read her paper. Instead of the carriage ride he'd offered, following services, she'd suggested instead lunch with the Hales and then an afternoon of getting to better know one another. She'd slipped and called it _hanging out. _He'd chuckled at her, and asked if it was an American term. She explained what it might look like, an afternoon of lounging with each other, and he was immediately up for it. He'd even taken off his frock coat and kicked off his shoes, making himself comfortable.

He finally finished the nine page, painstakingly hand written paper, and looked at her, with a blank expression on his face. He set the paper on his lap and stared straight ahead. Oh God, he hated it!

He turned toward her, an indescribable look on his face.

"Well?" her impatient tone match her emotion.

"This is your writing?" he demanded. "All of it?"

She nodded, wide-eyed.

"God, you are brilliant." He shook his head and she exhaled her long-held breath. "Your arguments and observations are sound and reasonable. I don't much like some of your references to irrational and impractical practices by some masters, but I think you are spot on with all your criticisms."

She walked to the sofa where he sat, legs stretched out in front of him. "Do I need to change anything?"

"Not that I can see." He shook his head. "You did a fine job writing of the class distinctions. I think you may have had a _certain_ former draper's assistant in mind when you wrote the section about upward social mobility." His lips twisted into a smile. "I liked that term, by the way. Did you coin it?"

"I don't believe so." She frowned. Damn, she probably did now. She laughed inside. How many more words might she introduce into the English language long before their time?

"The quote you used by Longfellow… I had never read before."

She pulled the paper from him. Hells bells that probably hadn't been written yet, either. "I thought it was fitting. It described my admiration for the struggle of a _certain_ former draper's assistant."

She found it on the page and read it out loud. "_The heights by great men reached and kept were not attained by sudden flight, but they, while their companions slept, were toiling upward in the night.__"_ Boldly she stepped between his outstretched legs and then reached forward and rubbed the back of her fingers against his jawline. "I find you to be a very great man, John Thornton."

Their eyes locked, and she hoped he would finally chance a kiss. After all, what could it hurt? She'd wanted to kiss him for a long time, truth be told she wanted far more. He reached down and picked up her free hand and kissed that instead.

"Chicken," she whispered.

"Why?" His eyes were wide, but a smile teased the edges of his lips.

"You know why," she teased.

"It wouldn't be proper," he argued and then stood. Side-stepping her, he walked to stand near the fireplace, frustrating her further.

She shook her head and laughed out loud.

"What if the Hales saw?" he asked.

"What if they did?" she challenged.

"Do you have no care for your reputation?" he sputtered.

Oh Lord, he was getting angry at her. She didn't expect anger.

She walked to where he stood and stopped directly in front of him. Meeting his eyes, she slid her palms up the front of his waistcoat, pleased when he didn't stiffen or move away. She wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, and slowly coaxed his head down to meet her lips. She intentionally started as if she were inexperienced. After all, women were supposed to be at this time, but that didn't last very long.

The minute her lips touched his, it was like a dam of emotion was released and he quickly deepened their contact. She snaked her left arm around his waist, making their contact complete. His hands rested just above her waist on her back, and when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, she moaned with pleasure and pressed herself even closer to him, standing upon her tiptoes.

He pulled away reluctantly, but then immediately tipped her chin right back up as he had a habit of doing, and kissed her just once more, with incredible gentleness.

"Wow," she whispered. "That was even better than I expected."

He chuckled. "Your curiosity is sated and your reputation remains clean."

She sighed, and reluctantly pulled out of his arms. She moved away from him, to sit on the sofa where he'd been, realizing the tall man standing in her drawing room had just caused her whole world to tilt at an even more awkward angle than it had been hanging. "And you honestly admit you weren't in the least bit curious?"

"I admit nothing of the sort." He laughed. She loved that sound. She loved it when he smiled instead of frowned, she loved that she could affect his mood in such a way.

She was falling in _love _with him.

Dixon brought in tea as he was making his way back to the sofa to join her.

"Thank you, Dixon," Margaret told her.

"Mrs. Hale won't be joining you, Miss Margaret, but Mr. Hale will be down shortly."

Dixon left and John finally sat next to her. She busied herself pouring him some tea, adding sugar as he liked, a dash of milk, and then handed him the cup.

"Is kissing usually involved in _hanging out_?" he asked quietly studying her.

"I usually hang out with my female friends, so I couldn't say." Her lips twitched.

"You've been kissed before." It was a statement not a question.

"I have," she admitted. _But my knees never felt quite so weak. _

"I have, too."

She laughed. Was he competing with her?

"What?"

"It was rather obvious," she stated. "You have a certain level of skill, Mr. Thornton."

"I think perhaps you have leave to use my Christian name as you see fit."

"How kind of you, sir." She smiled behind her teacup.

He took a sip of tea and stared at her, that intense, deep, overwhelming stare that made her heart skip a beat, and made her seriously consider staying in the past. Combined with that honeyed voice that made her want to do naughty things in the dark, she was in real trouble where her heart was considered.

"Mr. Hale seems to be settling in rather well?" He switched the subject remarkably well.

"He is," Margaret agreed. "But, John," he smiled when she called him by his name, "I have to tell you that Mrs. Hale is in poorer health than I even thought. At first I thought it was just difficulty becoming settled in this new place, but I think it may be much worse."

"Oh, I'm glad you reminded me." He set down his teacup and reached behind him where his frockcoat was hanging over the back of the sofa. He plunged his hands into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. He handed it to her. "I had mother jot down Doctor Donaldson's direction."

"Did you tell her why?" she asked.

"I did." He nodded. "She was concerned it was you that was ill."

"Thank you." She tried to take the note from him, but he held tight. She looked at him questioningly.

"It will cost you," he teased.

"What might the price be?"

"Can you not guess?" he whispered glancing at her mouth before returning his gaze to her eyes.

She smiled and leaned forward willing to pay for his assistance.

Mr. Hale broke their spell. He coughed from the hallway before joining them.

They pulled away quickly, although he was far more flustered than she was. Which gave her some odd satisfaction.

"So, what do you think of our girl's writing, John?" Richard asked him the minute he entered the room.

"I've never seen Milton's issues explained better, Mr. Hale. There was the one point she made I think you might have had some input?"

"Which might that be?" Richard sat on a chair across from the sofa they shared.

"The part where she wonders if the mill masters ought to have a Christian duty to guide their workers in making good choices with their money and lives. Where she suggests everyone should have an opportunity for education."

Richard laughed. "I might agree with it, John, but I didn't make any suggestions for her writing. She hasn't even allowed me to read it, yet." He smiled gently at her. "She said you must be the first."

Pleasure spread across his face and John smiled at her.

"I thought you'd be the best judge of its accuracy." She shrugged. His opinion had become the most important to her. "Even if you disagreed with me in portions, I knew you would tell me if I made a good argument or not."

He kept staring at her, a look on his face she couldn't quite understand, but was willing to enjoy for a long time to come.

For the rest of the afternoon, Richard remained with them. He shared his newspaper with John, and occasionally one or the other would bring up a topic to discuss, while she read _Jane Eyre_ for perhaps the fifth time. She occasionally glanced up to watch John as he read his paper.

Ironically, this is exactly how she would want to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon if they were in her little apartment in Oxford, too. Well, except he'd probably have a loud soccer game on in the background, and she'd be streaming the Chicago Bears on her IPAD.

Before afternoon tea, Mr. Thornton took his leave. After rising from the sofa, he slipped his shoes back on and his coat, explaining that she had told him to make himself comfortable.

Richard laughed. "You see, I have taken her up on her suggestion as well." He lifted up his sock encased foot. "It's lovely to walk through the house without shoes. My wife hasn't quite adopted the lackadaisical attitude as I have."

"It would appear Miss Bryce has had a good influence on the both of us." He smiled gently at her. "Mr. Hale, I'm sorry to say I will not be able to commit to studies this week. With the mill business, I'm not certain what will need to be done. I must try to find an end to the strike as soon as I can." His stern face returned, as if he had swallowed something bitter. "But Friday, I hope you and Mrs. Hale will still join us?"

"Yes, I intend to come, and so will Maria unless she is feeling poorly." Richard stood. "Margaret tells me you will be escorting her?" 

"Yes, indeed." His smile returned. "I hope Mrs. Hale will be well. The spring dinner is always quite a production. She will see Milton at its finest." He glanced between Richard and her. "If it pleases you, I will come with the carriage for the three of you at six that evening?"

"Thank you, Mr. Thornton. That would be very kind." She answered for them.

She escorted him from the drawing room, and quietly closed the door behind them. She handed him his hat, coat and gloves.

"You should have spoken about your concerns with the strike," she scolded. "I don't like that you held back your worries today, Mr. Thornton."

"I didn't want to ruin the time I had with you with the burden of my problems." He brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. "I didn't want to have to think of anything but _hanging out_ with you today, Maggie."

She stared up at him. Lord he was tall, and without much thought to the date on the calendar walked into his arms and held him close. "I hope you will learn to share your concerns with me, John. I believe I have the intellect to understand some of the issues you are facing." She pulled back slightly, craning her neck to look up. "That is… if you wish to, of course."

He bent his head and kissed her so softly, it felt like a feather caressing her lips, and then pulled her close again, holding her as if she were the most cherished creature on earth. He rested his cheek against the side of his head.

"I wish to share everything with you, Maggie. If you will permit me to do so. I've truly never met anyone quite like you."

She smiled. "I daresay you never will again." She laughed to herself, realizing she'd begun to pick up some of the slang of this time, too.

He pulled back, kissed her forehead, bowed and left her standing, holding the door open, watching him walk away. He turned back, as if he could sense her watching him. She waved and he smiled back. She hoped he was indeed able to forget his problems for a while, while he was with them.

She needed Mr. Bell to get here, to help her figure out what the hell to do. Thursday was his scheduled day of arrival. Why couldn't she meet such a man as John Thornton in 2014 and might he be the thing that Bell alluded to, which might be enough to keep her back in 1851 Milton?


	11. Chapter 11

"_The first time ever I saw your face  
I thought the sun rose in your eyes  
And the moon and the stars were the gifts you gave  
To the dark and the end of the skies_

And the first time ever I kissed your mouth  
I felt the earth move in my hand  
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird  
That was there at my command, my love"

_Roberta Flack ~~First Time Ever I Saw Your Face~~_

John was not able to get away before Friday to see Margaret, despite his every effort to find some hours in the day, the opportunity never came. But, now he was climbing the short set of stairs leading to the small house at Crampton where Margaret and the Hales would be awaiting his arrival. He removed his hat and rapped briskly on the door, anxious to see her dressed in formal attire.

Dixon opened the door, looking a bit miffed. But then she always had sort of a foul disposition. However, she guided him into the study where Mr. Hale was talking with Mr. Bell in front of the fireplace. John had forgotten Bell would be in town for the dinner. He wondered briefly if he'd been as impressed as John with Margaret's writing. No doubt in his occupation he saw more scholarly writing than John, but he felt her paper was very accurate, extraordinarily well constructed.

"John! You're right on time. And looking very fine, I might add." Mr. Hale stood and greeted him with a handshake. "I trust you know Adam Bell?"

"Of course. He's my landlord." John chuckled and then extended his hand to Bell.

"Oh, I was not aware of that!" Mr. Hale said. "Adam, you never mentioned it."

"Only the building is mine." Mr. Bell told Mr. Hale, his eyes still resting on John. "The business is all John's. Good to see you, Thornton." Bell returned Bell's handshake.

"Won't you have a seat, John?" Mr. Hale gestured toward the sofa. "Miss Bryce is not yet ready, although Dixon says she is about finished." He smiled at him.

"Is Mrs. Hale not coming?" John worried about his mother's obsession with even numbers at her dinner table. He took a seat where Mr. Hale suggested.

"She is helping Margaret get ready, and yes, she rested all day and is looking forward to the excitement of the evening." Mr. Hale sat back by the fireplace.

"Did I hear my name mentioned?"

All eyes went to the door where Margaret and Mrs. Hale stood, both smiling, and both looking their very best. He'd missed Margaret something fierce this week. If she were wearing rags, he would still be pleased to see her. He stood as she entered.

"Shall we pass muster then?" Mrs. Hale teased as she walked to where her husband now stood. "Good evening Mr. Bell, Mr. Thornton." She nodded to each in turn.

"I should say, without exception, you will be the two loveliest women at my home this evening." John smiled, intentionally shifting his attention between the two women.

Margaret was wearing a champagne colored gown. The bodice was low cut, but completely within the style of the day. As she walked, the silk of the gown caught the candlelight and seemed to glow. She looked incredible, and he couldn't be more pleased she'd agreed to attend with him that evening.

"I'm certain your sister will not appreciate that remark, but I shall cherish it." Margaret smiled at him, stealing the breath from his chest.

It wasn't fair she was allowed to show so much flesh to anyone but him. But, oh how lovely she was. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything else this evening. Tonight he would ask her to consent to an official courtship. The whole time he'd bathed, and dressed for the evening, he'd practiced what he would say to her, how he would ask her to keep company with him. Only momentarily he'd wondered what his mother would say, but then decided he didn't care. He'd never loved before, and he feared if she rejected his request, he would be unable to love anyone else.

And he _was_ in love with her. Utterly and completely enchanted by this unique woman name Margaret Bryce. How it happened so quickly, he didn't understand, but it was a fact, one that he could not refute, one that he didn't wish to ignore. Their kissing the last time they'd been together had been so natural, as if they'd shared such intimacies their whole lives. Had it been any woman other than Margaret, he would have questioned her motives for allowing him to such attentions. Yes, she'd been forward with him, but Lord it had felt so right. _Hanging out_ as she'd called, had relaxed him completely, even with all the stress and worry he was enduring from the strike, he'd spent that afternoon feeling as if he were in a different world, with Maggie at its core.

This feeling of love was something amazing, something compelling, and something he could never imagine not having.

His eyes followed her progress toward him, his smile widening the closer she came. When she stopped in front of him, she extended her hand. He gladly bowed over her knuckles and kissed them, wishing at that moment that they were alone and she would again allow him to do far more than kiss her small hand. He easily remembered the softness of her lips, and her delightful, passionate response to his attentions.

"Margaret, you look glorious." Mr. Bell broke the spell between the two of them. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

"Thank you, Mr. Bell," she whispered.

John saw the blush cut across her cheeks and she looked away.

"We should be going," John said quickly, discomforted by the physical contact between Bell and Margaret. He knew it was ridiculous to be jealous of Bell. The man was at least twice her age _and_ her godfather. Bell could have no designs on her, but John saw the look Bell gave her, and it made him wonder, anyway.

"Of course!" Mr. Hale said. "We're keeping you from your own party!" He chuckled and helped his wife get into her coat. "I must thank you again, Mr. Thornton, for the invitation and the escort to your home."

"It's my pleasure." He placed his hat back on his head and then helped Margaret shrug into her coat, chancing the opportunity to allow his hand to linger at the back of her waist. "Mr. Bell you are welcome to join us. My carriage can seat six if needed."

"Thank you," Bell told him. "I'll take you up on that offer!"

The Hales, and then Margaret climbed into his carriage, with his assistance. Mr. Bell followed and then John climbed up. He was anxious to get home, to show his mother and all the other mill owners his beautiful Maggie.

He settled into the seat across from her. She stared at him, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. Although the Hales and Bell engaged in some conversation about mutual friends from Oxford, Margaret focused solely, silently on him. What was she thinking?

He'd gotten a haircut, shaved an extra time this evening, just so he might look his best for her. He wasn't a vain man, but he hoped she'd noticed, he hoped she approved of how he looked. Together they would make a handsome couple.

They arrived quickly at his home at the mill, not having spoken a word to one another. How could he speak, with his throat thick with emotion, as he stared at her sitting demurely across from him? When the carriage stalled at the home, he stepped down first to help Margaret out. He would take any and every opportunity this evening to touch her. The Hales and then Mr. Bell followed them up the stairs of the mill house where his mother was silently waiting inside the doorway.

"I was concerned you wouldn't be here before the other guests began to arrive." Her smile was brittle and even though she hosted this party each March, she always allowed her nerves to disturb her.

"We made it in plenty of time, Mother," he whispered so no one else could hear his soothing voice. "Calm yourself. All is well."

"Good evening, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret greeted her, as she removed her coat. John took it from her and handed it to one of the servants.

"Miss Bryce, Mr. and Mrs. Hale, Mr. Bell, I am so pleased you could attend this evening," his mother answered. She seemed genuine in her pleasure to have them for company.

"Your home looks very festive, Mrs. Thornton." Margaret looked around the spacious foyer, impressed by the number of fresh flower bouquets strategically placed throughout the room. It looked like she'd bought out the whole flower shop.

"I believe the flowers give it a touch of spring in the house, even if it is still very much winter outside," Mrs. Thornton said.

The five of them, the Hales, Mr. Bell, John and Margaret, were led up the stairs into the main drawing room by Mrs. Thornton. Margaret had not been in this room before. So, when the others stopped just inside the doorframe, Margaret continued to walk further into the room, drawn to a painting over the fireplace depicting a younger John, with Fanny and Mrs. Thornton, dressed full in black, situated in the center. She looked stern even in the family painting.

The house was impressive. Each time she'd been welcomed here, Margaret felt slightly overwhelmed by its grandeur. Such an enormous contrast to the home of Bessy she'd visited just that afternoon, and even to her own humble dwelling with the Hales! Not to mention her university apartment in 2014 Oxford, furnished with a mixture of Bethany's parents castaways and things found at quaint, vintage secondhand shops.

The disparity was clear. She felt completely out of her league, out of place in such a cold, austere home. Perhaps she really didn't belonged with John, at all. He was a Prince of Industry, while she was a poor college student, barely scrapping by month to month.

This Milton, the center of the industrial revolution, gauged success and failure entirely on money and position within the society. Here, success wasn't measured in college degrees as it was in her life, but rather in materialistic things. She moved her gaze to some odd knick-knacks displayed under domed glass. Were they displayed like that to avoid dust? With no small children in the home there would be no need for their protection.

"This is the most important evening of the year for the first families and leaders of Milton, Miss Bryce." Margaret detected some censure in Mrs. Thornton's voice as she crept up behind her. If she hadn't felt panicked before, she was now. When she turned her attention to Mrs. Thornton, Margaret was confused by the woman's heated stare. Margaret simply nodded her understanding, and walked toward a window which overlooked the mill's courtyard, hoping to regain her composure.

The older women wasn't to be put off and was soon again standing at her side, her reflection showing up in the window where Margaret was looking out.

"Miss Bryce." Margaret slowly turned to face her, dreading what the woman would next say to her. "I understand my son has invited you as his _particular_ guest this evening." Mrs. Thornton's voice was low, direct as always, without a hint of warmth.

"Yes, he did." Margaret smiled, and glanced to where John now stood talking with the Hales and Mr. Bell. She blushed when he glanced her way and smiled at her.

"Do you understand the importance of my son's standing in Milton?" Mrs. Thornton continued.

"I'm not sure…"

Mrs. Thornton interrupted her. "Of course you don't. How could you?" She waved at the air. "You've only just arrived in Milton. I wonder… Miss Bryce are familiar with the idea of being seen and not heard?"

_That was quite a zinger, Mrs. Thornton._

"You wish me to be silent this evening?" How ridiculous! _Come to my party, but please don't engage in any conversation._

"Precisely." Mrs. Thornton nodded. "John invited you to decorate his arm. You look beautiful, Margaret, you will obviously be the loveliest woman here, but your liberal views should remain hidden tonight." The older woman stepped closer and dropped her voice. "You will do nothing to embarrass John. Do you understand me?"

"Funny, Mrs. Thornton, he mentioned nothing of this to me." Margaret shifted her weight, raging to do battle, but unwilling to cause a scene. "If I am an embarrassment when I use my brain, perhaps I should return home?" She attempted to move away from Mrs. Thornton and toward John, only to be grabbed by the arm.

"All I ask is that you hold your tongue tonight, Miss Bryce." It was a growl. "The strike is wearing on everyone's nerves. I want no conflict in my home this evening."

"And yet isn't that just what you have just created?" Margaret asked the woman, pleased to see the blush cross her cheeks.

"Miss Bryce you're here!" It was Fanny that separated the two women and broke the tension. "Oh my, what a wonderful dress." Fanny took hold of the fabric of the skirt and rubbed the silk between her fingers. "Surely you didn't find this one here in Milton?"

"No." Margaret shook her head. She wasn't certain where Mr. Bell had dug it up, but it wasn't from Milton.

Her nerves were still humming, on full alert for the argument with Mrs. Thornton. She glanced at John and noticed his look of concern. She shook her head and gave him a brilliant smile. The strike must be bothering him terribly and the last thing she wanted to do was add to his worries.

"It positively shimmers in the candlelight," Fanny prattled on. "Why, you are glowing!"

"Fanny you are embarrassing Miss Bryce with your attention," Mrs. Thornton scolded.

"Thank you, Miss Thornton. You look lovely as always." Margaret put on a happy face and returned the compliments to John's sister. "Those peacock feathers are a perfect match for the color and design of the gown. I wonder if the fabric wasn't created with just those in mind. It highlights your light coloring so nicely, too."

"Well," Fanny put her arm through Margaret's and pulled her away from the evil dragon, toward the place where John stood. "You and I shall be the prettiest girls here tonight." Slightly taller than Margaret, she smiled down at her. "We must go shopping soon, Margaret. You have such fine taste. I shall introduce you to Anne Latimer tonight. You saw her perhaps at the last concert? She was with John." Her eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand. "I'm sorry I shouldn't have brought that up."

"No worries, Miss Thornton. That was then. This is now." She smiled and patted Fanny on the arm.

"You look handsome this evening, John," Fanny told her brother. He'd snuck up next to them without Margaret realizing it. She turned and looked up at him with a bright smile.

"You are correct, Miss Thornton, I think he looks exceptionally fine this evening. There are good genes in your family." She smiled wider at the pleasure on John's face from her compliment.

"What was that?"

"What?" She couldn't recall what she said he wouldn't have understood.

"Genes?"

"Oh." Dang it, she messed up again with stuff from the twenty-first century! "It means your family has some admirable traits."

"Ah." He nodded with raised brows, looking skeptical. "Will you come greet Mr. Slickson with me?" He held out his elbow. "He's just arrived."

"Certainly." She nodded, but paused. "But, perhaps it would be better to have your mother join you instead?" She followed the older woman's progress as she crossed the room to where the new guest was standing.

He stared at Margaret, then glanced at his mother, weighing the implication of Margaret greeting guests with him. It would signify she were more than a casual date for the evening, to have her greeting guests on his arm. The dragon was the mistress of the home at Marlborough Mills and should accompany him. Margaret could tell he was warring inside himself. Finally, he sighed and nodded.

"Come along anyway," he insisted. "Fanny will enjoy some time alone with Watson and I'll leave you with the Hales and introduce you to Slickson in due time."

She walked to the Hales and stood quietly listening to a story Mr. Bell was sharing about one of his students, when a waiter carrying a tray with wine stopped and offered her one. She needed something stronger after the confrontation with his mother, but the wine would do for now. And she would keep her mouth shut. She looked over her right shoulder, caught John's eye quickly and smiled warmly his direction before turning her attention back to Mr. Bell.

John had been staring at her. And Lord did he look handsome. He'd chosen to wear a black suit, with tails and a maroon waistcoat with a black paisley design embroidered on it and a matching silk cravat. Yes, he did look way hot. Yes, she did want to do naughty things in the dark with him. Was he enough to keep her in Milton, in this time period? She swallowed and bit the inside of her lip. Maybe? Would she be giving up more than she was getting from him? Probably not.

"What do you think about it, Margaret?"

"I'm sorry? What did you say?" She'd been too engrossed in impure thoughts about John to catch Mr. Bell's ramblings.

"The strike, my dear. How long do you imagine it will go on?" He smiled kindly at her. "You have such an interesting opportunity to be involved with parties on both sides."

"I find myself neutral in the matter," she said quietly, looking down into her glass. "I can see the Master's need to do what they see best for their businesses, but clearly the workers only wish for a better lives for themselves and their families."

"Well said, my dear," Mr. Bell told her. "They are barracudas, Margaret." He bent at the waist so he could speak directly into her ear. "You will be challenged tonight, especially as you are new blood, and here as John's guest. That's amazing, I might add. He never has a partner at these affairs, I was afraid the dragon wouldn't allow it." Mr. Bell smiled at her.

"She has already warned me to remain silent this evening," she whispered. "I hope I don't embarrass him."

"If he were concerned, he would have warned you himself. He asked you precisely because he likes your opinions. You test him, Margaret. I don't think many people do that." Bell shrugged. "Besides, it's her jealousy talking. You've invaded her territory and she's setting up the borders."

She nodded, certain he spoke the truth, and then finished the wine in her glass.

"Ah, here he comes now, Margaret," Mr. Bell told her, looking over her shoulder. "Smile, my dear. No need for nerves. The man is besotted."

She turned just as John neared them. "Will you come and mingle with me, Miss Bryce?" He held out his elbow. "I should like to introduce you to my colleagues."

"Of course." She glanced at Mr. Bell with raised eyebrows and followed John as he made his way back across the room.

In quick time, the room had filled with the people Mrs. Thornton had referred to as the _first families_ of Milton. They were just like the snooty assholes who she avoided at all costs while at Oxford and back home in Chicago. Now she was stuck with them for a full evening.

"I have done my duty as host, and now wish to enjoy the evening with you by my side," he whispered.

She had to admit, he did look, and act besotted. "I hope you enjoy yourself. You certainly deserve it after the week you've had."

He patted her hand resting on his arm, and tipped his head lower to reach her ear. "Just having you here is pleasure enough."

He guided her to one small clump of people talking- two couples. John introduced her to each of the men, who in turn introduced their wives. Hamper and Bender. She knew the names from previous conversations with John about the other mill owners.

The women were much older than she was, perhaps even Mrs. Hale's age, but they were pleasant, if not outwardly engaging and friendly. She and John stayed there speaking with that group for a bit before he excused them and guided her to another group of two couples. These four were younger, right about John's age, perhaps a bit younger. The youngest woman in the group was obviously pregnant, and looked radiant and very much in love with her banker husband. He and John seemed quite comfortable with each other, and Margaret was soon drawn into conversation with the young bride.

"When is the baby due?"

"Three more months." The woman, named Polly, chuckled. "I am so anxious to meet him."

"Have you chosen names yet?" That's what she would ask in her own time, surely women in this era also spoke of the same concerns?

"Yes, we have." She looked at Margaret curiously, and didn't elaborate.

"Do you live here in Milton?" Margaret tried a new direction for the conversion.

"Oh no." She shook her head, the tight curls at the back of her head swinging violently. "Bradley wouldn't live in this town. We are several miles outside of Milton." She leaned forward as if telling Margaret a secret. "He must take the carriage in each day for work."

"I see." Margaret stood mute. She glanced at John who stood across from her and widened her eyes ever so slightly, wondering if he would understand her silent entreaty to move on.

"Miss Bryce would you like to meet some more of my guests?" he asked. She was relieved to be away from this banker couple. God, what if all the people here were that superficial?

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Thornton." She smiled at the couple and walked on the side of John as he led her to another grouping of people.

Fanny was in this new group, along with the young woman who had attended the concert with John several weeks earlier. Anne Latimer.

"Oh, Miss Bryce! Here is Anne Latimer who I told you about. Miss Latimer, please meet Miss Bryce."

Margaret smiled briefly at the younger woman. She looked pretty, in a Pepto-Bismol pink gown that flattered her blond hair and tall, slender, young figure.

"Ah, the writer from Oxford?" Miss Latimer stated, her nose in the air.

"Yes." Margaret nodded. She was proud of her occupation, refused to feel embarrassed for her abilities, even if they were a bit unique during this time period.

"This is Miss Latimer's father, my banker, and his wife," John introduced them. "Here is Mr. Slickson, and Mr. Trunesdale, both own mills here in Milton." The men bowed politely to her.

"You were at the concert a few weeks back, weren't you?" It was Slickson that asked her.

"Yes." She nodded. "I've been to two concerts since coming to Milton. I enjoyed them both."

"You like music then?" Trunesdale chimed in.

Margaret nodded. "Yes, very much."

"Do you like dancing as well, Miss Bryce?" Slickson asked.

Back in her world that would be a come on, an invitation to dance. She wasn't sure about its meaning here.

"It depends." Oh hell, where was this going? She looked up at John, hoping again he'd get the cue.

"On what?" Fanny sputtered and then laughed. "I should think a person enjoys dancing or doesn't?"

"Miss Thornton," Margaret began, "aren't there certain men you would prefer to partner with? If you were required to spend time with someone odious it would be less enjoyable than if you were someone pleasant."

"Of course!" It was Miss Latimer than answered. "For example, were Mr. Thornton to ask me to dance, I would be much more obliged to dance with him than say, Mr. Hamper."

Margaret swallowed back a stab of jealousy, especially when she saw the look of interest and invitation on Anne's face. _The little schemer_.

"And what about you, Miss Bryce? If _I_ were to ask you to dance would you find it a burden or a pleasure?" It was Trunesdale asking.

He was a handsome man, nearly as tall as John, but with light brown hair and chocolate brown eyes. His shoulders weren't as broad as John's, but it seemed he smiled far more often than John.

"I'm afraid the dances in England differ greatly from those in America," She'd practiced this speech in front of the mirror before John collected her that evening. "So, I suppose if it were a waltz, I would be pleased to dance with you, otherwise, I'm afraid I might make a fool out of myself."

"Nonsense!" Fanny proclaimed. "No one is here to judge you, Miss Bryce. Why, we are all friends here." She smiled, but Margaret had a feeling _friends_ was not an accurate description of the people at the home that evening. Mr. Bell's barracuda description might be a better description.

"In any case," John interrupted. "Miss Bryce has consented to dance her first with me."

He smiled down at her and she nodded. She hadn't, of course, but was glad to be rescued from the circling piranhas.

"Well, if I may have your second, provided they play a waltz, I will be quite pleased." Trunesdale again.

"Alright," she agreed. "However, you may wish to watch me with Mr. Thornton and see if there isn't a better partner available to you." She chuckled.

"Well if Trunesdale gets a dance with you, then so do I," Slickson commented. He puffed out his broad chest. Competition? Over her? That never happened back home. Of course she never wore fancy garments that accentuated her figure as well as this dress did, either. Or pinched her waist and stole her breath when she turned wrong.

"Only the waltzes gentlemen." Would they play three? She hoped not.

Fanny and Anne took over the conversation with the Mill Masters after that, and the older man named Watson who John led her to believe Fanny had an interest in, joined the fray. Margaret noticed Watson's attention was centered solely upon Fanny. Did the girl realize how interested

Watson was in her?

John moved to stand behind Margaret's right elbow. The warmth from his body was tangible, without her even looking over her shoulder. She had a feeling if she took a step back, they would be touching. How tempting.

"Guests," Mrs. Thornton's low-pitched voice was heard over the din of discussions. "I invite you into the dining room for the meal!"

"Excuse me," John whispered in her ear. "You'll be seated at my left." He smiled at her and walked toward his mother.

Mr. Bell was quick to offer Margaret his arm, knowing no doubt that John would have to escort his mother.

"You are doing well, Margaret," Bell said, "But they have begun to circle you."

"Yes, they are," she agreed with a deep exhale. "Thanks for the rescue."

"Mr. Thornton has told me rather bluntly that you are to sit at his left, so I better make certain to get you there in good time." He smiled at her kindly. "Remember when I said you would know when it will be time you're you to stay or return?"

She nodded.

"Your paper is brilliant. It now flows well, with so much emotion and understanding of the struggles these people face daily. The masters and the hands." He shrugged. "Your goal has been achieved, Margaret. If you went back now, you'd graduate and be able to move on with your life. But I'm afraid you may be at that point, Margaret, where you will need to decide. Thornton is deeply attracted to you, and I see similar feelings you have toward him. Perhaps you will soon face a turning point, where the decision must be made."

She knew he was right. She'd let her attraction to John go too far. She didn't want to hurt him, but she could hardly stay here, and he would be a fish out of water in her world. Her heart started to pound and her stomach cramped at the thought of leaving the smiling, beautiful man standing at the head of the table, waiting for her to join him.

How the hell did she let this happen?

Mr. Bell led her to the seat next to Thornton and suddenly the table hushed with new understanding of the significance of her presence that evening. She glanced at John who glanced down at her with… _Oh my hell_… love in his eyes. Yes, people, I am hooked up with him. Yes, I want to sleep with him. And yes, Mrs. Thornton is shooting me daggers with her eyes. She smiled at the table in general and took a seat when the other women we seated.

She immediately felt his foot tap her shoe and she glanced up at his face. All he did was look at her, that's the only reassurance she needed that everything would be fine. She smiled back at him and then turned toward Mrs. Thornton who offered a greeting to her table and then a short prayer.

Very soon the first course was served, and conversation buzzed around them. She looked up occasionally to catch his profile in the candlelight. Yeah, she was screwed. There wasn't guy in her time like him, nor would there be. How could her destiny be in this century and not her own? She had to go back. Didn't she?

She was the least indecisive person she knew. She made a choice and stuck with it. She never doubted her choices because they were carefully considered and plotted. Sometimes her actions were crazy- like agreeing to go back in time 160 years, but rarely did she mess up. And, certainly not as bad as she had this time.

She loved him. Plain and simple. He fascinated her, aroused her, and attracted her. This was a once in a lifetime thing. She might be unfamiliar with this time period, but she was certain of what she felt and what she had to do. She'd have to tell him soon who she really was, and hope that together they could come up with a way to stay together. Maybe. Flush toilets and hot showers were pretty appealing.

"Miss Bryce, Mr. Bell here was telling us you've come to the north to research our ways. Tell us, what have you found out?" Why was Slickson singling her out again?

She glanced first down the table at Mrs. Thornton who looked like she'd swallowed a lemon, and then to John who inclined his head slightly, encouraging her to speak. Having read her paper, he knew exactly what her thoughts were, so she felt safe expressing them, or at least perhaps a watered-down version.

"I find Milton to be very different from anywhere I have ever been," she said quietly.

"In what ways?" Fanny asked. "Mother hasn't allowed me to travel to London, or _anywhere_ really, so I am curious how we are different."

Margaret looked around at the faces tuned into her with rapt attention. She hated to be the center of attention. She did alright when she was teaching classes, but when surrounded by people her own age, people she didn't know, but needed to impress, a level of anxiety kicked in.

She swallowed and gave Fanny a small smile. "I have found there to be a certain energy and enthusiasm for trade here in Milton that I haven't seen elsewhere." She set her spoon down and took a sip of wine, waiting for more questions.

"Of course you won't have seen it anywhere else. That is what we do here, Miss Bryce. We manufacture the best cotton in the world," Mrs. Thornton said, pride for her town evident in her voice.

"You've noticed the wealth that comes from the cotton, how well situated we are in the north. In speaking with Londoners that come up hoping to save us with their investments, they seem to expect poverty." Slickson laughed. "I had one bloke come and offer me money like it was some great gift to me, not to himself as an opportunity to double his investment."

The mill masters laughed, and nodded, possibly all having experienced the same thing. Margaret didn't want to bring poverty into the conversation. Slickson might not be impoverished, but she well knew some of his people who lived in the Princeton district who were. That was the real people of Milton, not the select few surrounding the fine table this evening.

"You've been teaching, I understand, since coming to Milton?" Anne Latimer asked.

Why was Margaret placed under the microscope tonight? She sat up a bit taller, deciding the second course of some sort of fish was not to her liking anyway, and stared at Anne, who sat half-way down the table between Mr. Latimer and Mrs. Hale.

"Yes," Margaret answered. "Although I came here primarily to research for Mr. Bell, I knew that wouldn't fill my days. I was quite fortunate Mr. Bell knew about Mrs. Wilkinson and her school."

"Where is that located, Miss Bryce?" Fanny asked. "I haven't heard of such an establishment."

She glanced at John, remembering his concern, and the carriage he sent for her comfort. He nodded toward her, urging her on. Lord, he was a good man. He had her back.

"It's on the very western edge of Milton, just through the Princeton district," she answered.

"The Princeton district!" Slickson exclaimed. "Surely you aren't moving about in _that_ area."

"Ladies do not go to that part of Milton, Miss Bryce," Trunesdale stated. "Our hands live in the Princeton area, _we_ do not frequent the area."

Oh good gravy, she had to bite her tongue or Mrs. Thornton might beat her.

"Part of Miss Bryce's research centers on the idea of the differences between the haves and the have-nots, in industrial towns, Trunesdale." _Thank you Mr. Bell_. "She wrote a brilliant paper for me highlighting what she has found, particularly about the disparity that exists between workers and the mill masters, not only in a financial sense, but culturally as well."

"I suppose you're on the side of the workers? Teaching in Princeton of all places!" Slickson snorted. "Soon you'll be rioting with the hands while the strike drags on."

"No, you're wrong." She looked at Mrs. Thornton, and felt John's foot tap hers yet again. She glanced at him, but couldn't see any censure in his gaze.

"You're not going to side with the parents of the children you teach?" Anne snickered at her. Margaret wanted to bitch slap her, but instead counted to ten. She was smarter than Anne and wouldn't fall for the trap she'd set.

"You're correct, Miss Latimer. There _are_ two sides to the strike, and in the position I find myself, I can study each, with some indifference." John tapped her foot again. This time she knew he was questioning her indifference, as much as she was. "On one hand, I see the people surrounding this table, successful, intelligent businessmen and their wives, seeking to build a better future for themselves and their own families. I find that very admirable, very fine indeed." She paused and looked to Mrs. Thornton, hoping she wouldn't freak out with what she was saying. "On the other hand are the men and women who feel inferior to all of you. They believe your attitudes of superiority over them will keep them in poverty, uneducated, and therefore wholly dependent on you. Some of the people on strike believe you only achieve your wealth and success through their back breaking labor."

Snorts came from many different directions.

"The hands have no need for reading and writing and math, Miss Bryce," Mrs. Thornton said. "Their future is at the mills. By giving them an education, you are providing false hopes."

False hopes? "There is one young man I am tutoring in math that hopes to become an engineer on the railroad." Margaret knew Mrs. Thornton knew about this boy, that John had told her about him. "His mind is very sound. Shouldn't he be given a chance to explore this opportunity to better himself, to provide England and maybe, just maybe the rest of the world with better transportation systems?"

"Math? A woman tutoring math?" Slickson shook his head. "Unbelievable."

"Miss Bryce is more skilled in math than I am," John admitted with a gentle smile her direction. "I have seen what she is teaching, seen the school itself, met the headmistress, and I found it to be a safe, welcoming place for young people looking to better themselves."

A general hush surrounded the whole table. John's word was gold. Having given her his stamp of approval, the rest might very well consider her in a new light.

"Should we be supporting this, Thornton? Educating the hands?" Mr. Watson had a gravelly voice, sounded and looked like an old man. Poor Fanny. "They'll get thoughts in their mind and expect more than they do already."

"Don't you need men to do your books, Mr. Watson?" Margaret asked quietly. She turned to Mr. Latimer. "At the bank, don't you need people skilled above the basic level of addition and subtraction? What about contracts? Who prepares those for you, Mr. Slickson? As your business expands to new cities, even oversees to America, you need people skilled in certain areas. Wouldn't it be good to have them come to you with more than the very basic of skills?"

No one answered. Because she was right! Boo-yah!

"The problems with the workers far exceeds anything beyond any of your individual or direct control." _Well played Margaret_, she complimented herself. "I've seen the conditions here at Marlborough Mill and know Mr. Thornton sees to the needs of his workers. I visit a woman in Princeton twice a week, after school, so I see the conditions many of these families live in. They have a choice to remain where they are. No one, not a one of you, have enslaved these people. If they so choose, they can better themselves." She looked to John then, shocked by the warmth of his look. "They choose how to spend their money, to have children they cannot feed. Mr. Thornton has pointed out, quite accurately that none of you are their parents, or their brothers or their husbands." She flushed remembering that conversation. "You as their employer are only able to control the time they are with you. To do anything else would be a form of enslavement similar to what America uses on its black slaves."

More hush at the table. Had she made an impact? She looked at Mrs. Thornton, impressed that there was a slight smile at the corner of the older woman's mouth.

"You know, Miss Bryce, my son struggles with math," Mr. Hamper said, with a glance toward his wife. "I might be interested in hiring you to tutor him."

"I'm afraid my schedule is full, Mr. Hamper, but Mr. Hale is a very skilled tutor," she smiled softly at her housemate. "I'm sure he would be pleased to visit with your son."

"I read with Mr. Hale twice a week," John admitted. "When I knew he was coming from Oxford, I wanted to pick up my studies."

"Bored with the mill?" Slickson asked with a smirk.

"Not in the least. I was just looking for something more." He glanced at Margaret and then down the table at his mother.

Margaret saw the expression of love cross his mother's face, knew that John could do no wrong, that she would accept whatever he wanted if it would make him happy. That might even include Margaret.

"I would be happy to meet with your son, Mr. Hamper." Mr. Hale told him, and soon the two men began a conversation, encouraging others to do so as well, removing Margaret from the hot seat.

He tapped her foot three times, she took that to mean he was pleased. A naughty thought over took her mind. She'd probably regret it, but that didn't stop her from doing it. She slipped off her right shoe, really more like a slipper with a heel, and found the hem of his pants and snaked her toes under his pants leg. His leg jumped slightly and his gaze drifted to her. She hid a smile behind her wine glass, trying to look as innocent as possible. When his leg moved a bit closer to her, she slowly caressed the back of his calf with her stocking foot. She saw him squirm in his seat and felt guilty for a moment, but like Mr. Bell suggested she may well have reached the point of no return with her feelings for this stoic bulldog and maybe, just maybe it was time to show him what she felt. This was far too aggressive for a woman of this era, but Margaret _wasn't _a woman of this era, and John would have to accept that.

God what was the woman doing to him? He was hard as a rock, in a room full of people and his _mother_. It was bad enough she looked edible in her dress that evening, that she had spoken to his fellow mill masters in such complimentary terms about him, and that she'd formulated once again logical and reasonable arguments for the both sides of the strike. He was so aroused, he wanted to lift her from her chair and carry her to his bedroom and make love to her until neither of them could walk away.

And yet, Watson yammered on about the state of the economy. She moved her foot away, and wrapped it warmly around the back of his foot. He was tempted to take off his own shoe, but it would be too awkward to get it back on in a few minutes when the ladies would retire to the drawing room.

"I would like to speak with you about something personal, Thornton," Watson told him. "It's about your sister."

John understood what the man would be asking for. At the very least he would ask to court Fanny, but John was pretty convinced it was marriage the man would be seeking. Fanny seemed amiable to it, too, but he'd have to visit with her before talking with Watson.

"Perhaps Sunday after services?" John suggested. "You would be welcome to join us for lunch."

"Yes, that would be agreeable. Most agreeable." Watson nodded, chewing aggressively on his dinner. "I imagine you are aware of what I will speak with you about."

John turned toward Margaret as her foot slipped away from him. She was engaged in conversation with Mr. Bell. Perhaps she didn't even realized she'd moved away from him, but he noticed, and suddenly felt abandoned.

"Thornton?" Watson asked. "Did you hear what I said?"

John turned back to the older man without catching Margaret's attention. Watson had crumbs in his beard. Lord, should he agree to let Fanny marry this man? She could surely do better. Younger, at least.

"Yes, Watson, I have a good idea what you wish to speak about." John set his napkin next to his plate and leaned back against his chair. "I will welcome the conversation on Sunday."

It was time for the gender split. Mrs. Thornton stood. "Ladies, shall we give the men an opportunity to discuss business?"

All of the women stood at once, causing the gentlemen to follow suit until the ladies were out of the room. John was hesitant to stand, made sure he stood against the table to cover his physical reaction to Margaret's behavior. She flashed him a knowing, secretive smile before she walked behind his chair to leave the room.

"I suppose you've already laid claim to her?" Slickson asked John the minute the door closed behind the ladies.

"I suppose so, yes." John allowed himself to grin. A stupid grin, probably. He was besotted, pure and simple, she was the one he'd been looking for all his life.

"Well, damn," Slickson cursed. "You are one lucky bastard. I haven't heard a _man_ speak as fluently as she did tonight."

"And she's a damn fine looker, too," Trunesdale added as he lit up a cigar.

"Perfect package, I'd say. Except she's not blond." Watson made that observation as he blew smoke circles into the air.

Mr. Bell coughed. "She's a lovely young woman. Beautiful, intelligent and kind. Thornton you are indeed a lucky man if you can get her to accept you." He winked toward John.

"She's quite an easy person to live with, too," Mr. Hale said. "She's brought a liveliness to our home. She's been very good to my wife."

"Enough talk about Miss Bryce!" Watson barked. "How about the Irish, Thornton. When are they to arrive?"

"They will be here tonight," John announced. "On the midnight train from the north."


	12. Chapter 12

_"Said all I want from you is to see you tomorrow  
And every tomorrow, maybe you'll let me borrow your heart  
And is it too much to ask for every Sunday  
And while we're at it, throw in every other day to start_

_I know people make promises all the time_  
_Then they turn right around and break them_  
_When someone cuts your heart open with a knife, now you're bleeding_  
_But I could be that guy to heal it over time_  
_And I won't stop until you believe it_  
_'Cause baby you're worth it_

_So don't act like it's a bad thing to fall in love with me_  
_'Cause you might look around and find your dreams come true, with me_  
_Spent all your time and your money just to find out that my love was free_  
_So don't act like it's a bad thing to fall in love with me, me_  
_It's not a bad thing to fall in love with me, me_

_Now how about I'd be the last voice you hear tonight?_  
_And every other night for the rest of the nights that there are_  
_Every morning I just wanna see you staring back at me_  
_'Cause I know that's a good place to start_

_I know people make promises all the time_  
_Then they turn right around and break them_  
_When someone cuts your heart open with a knife, now you're bleeding_  
_Don't you know that I could be that guy to heal it over time_  
_And I won't stop until you believe it_  
_'Cause baby you're worth it_

_So don't act like it's a bad thing to fall in love with me_  
_'Cause you might look around and find your dreams come true, with me_  
_Spent all your time and your money just to find out that my love was free_  
_So don't act like it's a bad thing to fall in love with me, me_  
_It's not a bad thing to fall in love with me, me_  
_Not such a bad thing to fall in love with me_

_No I won't fill your mind_  
_With broken promises and wasted time_  
_And if you fall, you'll always land right in these arms_  
_These arms of mine_

_Don't act like it's a bad thing to fall in love with me_  
_'Cause you might look around and find your dreams come true, with me_  
_Spent all your time and your money just to find out that my love was free_  
_So don't act like it's a bad thing to fall in love with me, me_  
_It's not a bad thing to fall in love with me, me_  
_Not such a bad thing to fall in love with me"_

_Justin Timberlake ~~Not a Bad Thing~~_

Margaret, quickly bored with the conversation with the women, stood nervously by the fireplace, awaiting the men's return from the dining room. She shouldn't have been so forward with John. She shouldn't have kissed him so passionately last week or played footsie under the table this evening. She was acting naturally, how she would in her normal life, but as a Victorian woman, her behavior was scandalous. The only thing that comforted her nerves was the fact that John had not deflected her attentions, which made her believe he welcomed her forwardness. Indeed, he'd returned and encouraged her affections.

_Gah!_ _Here they come! _The men filed back in the room, single file. Margaret watched, but didn't see John enter before Mrs. Thornton approached her from behind.

"Miss Bryce, may I speak with you for a moment?"

She certainly didn't want argue with the dragon again, feared that maybe now that dinner was finished, Mrs. Thornton would suggest that she take her leave.

"Certainly." Margaret took a deep breath before answering her, looking away from John, who had just entered the room.

"I believe you spoke quite eloquently at the dinner table this evening." Mrs. Thornton swallowed and focused her beady eyes on Margaret. "I must apologize to you for what I said before dinner. I may have misjudged your attitude toward the mill masters and the strike in general. When John told me you were teaching some of the children in the Princeton district, I naturally assumed… well, I…" She looked away from Margaret. "I recall you referring to it as 'eating crow' when you needed to extend an apology to John. I hope you accept my request for forgiveness. You expressed both sides of the strike very well, and as an indifferent bystander."

"I'm hardly indifferent, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret scoffed, before she could stop herself.

Mrs. Thornton's eyes flew back to Margaret's face. "So you _do_ side with the strikers, then?" she charged. "You seemed rather fair and balanced at dinner."

"I am neutral in the strike discussion, or rather I understand the strike is harmful to both sides."

"Then to what are you not indifferent?" Mrs. Thornton's frustration was quickly becoming evident.

"Your son, Mrs. Thornton," Margaret admitted, quietly. "I am not indifferent to Mr. Thornton and the continued stability of his Marlborough Mills." Margaret stared at her until understanding dawned on Mrs. Thornton's face, and then she suddenly nodded curtly, a look of outright shock on her face, and walked away to visit with Mrs. Hale.

_Yes, Mrs. Thornton I shall accept your apology, but now you know you will not be rid of me too quickly._

"Are you well?" John intercepted Margaret before she reached the circle of women where she'd presumably been headed. She'd left his mother with a dumbfounded look on her face.

"I am." She flashed him a brilliant smile.

"Excellent." He looked down into her happy, shining green eyes. "The music will begin soon. I hope you will honor me with the first dance."

"Don't you need to open the dancing with your mother?" Her eyes were so soft, welcoming him into her world.

"Most years I have," he confirmed with a nod. "This year, I wish to spend that time with you."

"I'll be very pleased to dance with you. I hope it's a waltz otherwise you better be a very skilled and patient lead." She smiled at him, a touch of mischievousness in her eyes.

He leaned forward, nary an inch from her ear. "If I lead you, do you promise to follow?" he teased.

"Yes, sir, I will." She nodded to him with a suggestive look in her widened eyes.

Down the hall, John could hear the musicians begin their warm up. Earlier, long before the guests arrived, the servants removed all the furniture and rolled up the carpets in the sitting room to create a makeshift dance floor.

"Shall we?" He extended his elbow and she accepted it without hesitation.

Following behind them were the other fourteen pairs, some couples, some single men and women, most of whom wouldn't be dancing that evening. He wasn't entirely certain why his mother had insisted on dancing this year, either. In the past it had always been a dismal failure, with very little participation. Perhaps she thought it would lighten the mood because of the strike. Perhaps she'd just wanted something different.

As they entered the sitting room, he immediately drew Margaret to a quiet corner to await the start of the dancing. Not willing to waste the opportunity, he asked, "Will you stay a bit later when the Hale's leave this evening? I will see you get home. There are several things I would like to discuss with you."

"Are you angry with me? You've suddenly got such a frown on your face."

"Not in the least," he shook his head and then smiled, hoping it gentled his features. Anger was not what he felt toward the petite beauty standing before him. "I have to tell you something about the strike, something I wish for you to hear personally from me, and secondly, there is a personal topic I would like to broach with you."

"I see." She nodded to him. "Well, in that case, I'll stay as long as you would like me to."

"Thank you." He smiled at her.

When the first strains of the first waltz began, John led her to the dance floor. His body, already tense in her presence having to fight the urge to touch her, became even more uncomfortable. He pulled her as close as he could in a room full of people.

"I'm sorry I am so short," she whispered into his chest. The top of her head barely reached the bottom of his chin. "If I were taller perhaps we would fit together better."

Of course, with that comment, his mind shifted to other instances, if given an opportunity to be alone in private, they would fit completely as a key might within a lock. He swallowed back a moan and tightened his hold on the back of her waist. What would it be like to fall asleep with her face on the pillow next to him? To have hers be the last voice he heard every day?

"You are a very skilled dancer, Miss Bryce," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You underestimated your skills."

"I would offer you the same compliment," she said, with a squeeze of his left hand. "The music is delightful. I'm glad to have a chance to share a dance with you."

"I am as well, Miss Bryce." He added silently in his head that he hoped to be able to share such activities for the rest of their lives. He was hesitant to put the cart before the horse, but his mind was firmly decided, and hoped she would be interested in taking their relationship the next step.

"Did I do well at dinner, Mr. Thornton, or did I overstep?" She glanced up at him and then looked away.

That was a difficult question to answer. Did she mean the conversation, or did she refer to her little seductive foot dance under the table. He cleared his throat and pulled her as close to his body as he could.

"You have a brilliant mind, Miss Bryce, your conversation skills are superior to any woman I have ever known. Indeed you are the only woman who has ever spoken to me about the matters you have. I find that very appealing," he said quietly.

"Thank you."

He leaned over slightly, very close to her ear. "I would consider nothing you have ever done in my presence as overstepping, or inappropriate." He met her gaze when her head snapped up.

She nodded and looked away. He liked the slight blush that crossed her cheeks. The rest of their dance continued as if he were with any other woman he knew or hardly knew. He wasn't paying attention to the dance, simply going through the motion of the steps, while his mind was instead engaged in practicing the speech he would give to her at his first possible opportunity. He reasoned he'd have to dance three more dances before the musicians took a break, which would allow him an opportunity to speak with her alone, on the balcony attached to the sitting room. The Hales might not be gone at that time, but he would still see her home later that evening.

The song ended, and reluctantly he allowed Margaret to pull away from him, their eyes firmly locked on each other. He reasoned that if anyone happened to be watching them, there would be little doubt of his feelings for her. He guided her to where the Hale's were sitting, just as another dance quickly began. This one was not a waltz, or he would be tempted to pull her back onto the dance floor. He squeezed her hand as he seated her on one of the hard back chairs pushed up against the wall, and then bowed before he left in search of his sister.

"Margaret, we will be leaving shortly," Richard told her. "Maria is tired, and I must admit I am as well." He smiled gently first at his wife then at Margaret.

"I see." Margaret nodded. "Mr. Thornton has offered to see me home this evening, so you may leave whenever you need to."

"That sounds fine, my dear," Maria said. "Perhaps you should suggest _Miss_ Thornton ride along. I don't wish for people to talk about you."

"People are talking about me?" she whispered. How could that be?

"Not that I have heard, Margaret," Richard said. "It _is_ quite obvious Mr. Thornton finds enjoyment in your company. I believe others might notice this attention, and your… appreciation of his attention."

"I see." She nodded, considering what he'd said to her earlier, about talking with her about something personal.

"Miss Bryce." Mr. Slickson stopped just a foot from the chair where she sat. "I'm hopeful you will dance the next set with me."

"As long as it's a waltz, Mr. Slickson, I would be pleased to," she answered, repeating what she'd already told him earlier. "Have you met the couple I live with in Milton? Mr. and Mrs. Hale this is Mr. Slickson." She motioned to the couple sitting with her.

"It's a pleasure, Mrs. Hale." Slickson bowed to the older woman. "Mr. Hale and I met each other in the dining room."

"Yes, we did." Richard nodded toward Slickson.

"Ah, Miss Bryce, they are shifting to begin the next dance." Slickson held out his hand.

Margaret inwardly cringed, but outwardly smiled kindly at the man. It was another waltz. She really didn't wish to be held by the man but wouldn't refuse him, to do so would be rude, definitely cause a scene and probably create some tension between Mr. Thornton and Mr. Slickson. Margaret didn't want to add any further stress to John's life.

John had chosen to dance with Anne Latimer. It shouldn't bother Margaret, but it did. He held the woman perfectly appropriately in his arms, not nearly as closely or as tightly as he'd held Margaret, but it still bothered her, to see another woman in his arms. Slickson, dancing with her, was talking about the weather, so Margaret listened with only half an ear.

"May I call on you tomorrow evening, Miss Bryce?" Slickson suddenly asked.

Caught off guard, it took Margaret a moment to respond. The last thing she wanted to do was offend the man. "Thank you, Mr. Slickson," she said softly, "I don't think that would be for the best."

"May I ask why not?" His voice was rough and his hand tightened at the back of her waist as he turned her in the dance.

"My interest is otherwise engaged," she answered politely. Slickson was not nearly as tall as John. She could easily see the anger in his eyes.

"I see," he said. "Have you an arrangement with John Thornton, then?"

"I do not," she admitted. "But Mr. Slickson, I don't wish to hurt you, or lead you to believe that I would be interested in anyone but Mr. Thornton. It's not just you, sir. It would be _any_ other man wanting to spend time with me."

"How do you know that you and I wouldn't suit far better than you and Thornton?"

She glanced up at Slickson, and then away toward John, who was staring at her, tension etched in the lines next to his eyes. She smiled back at him, hoping to see his face relax. It worked.

"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Slickson," she told him gently, quietly, "but I'm sorry but must decline."

The music not long after that. He guided her back to the Hales without another word, bowed curtly and walked away. Margaret sat in the chair next to Maria Hale as another dance commenced. Soon the Hales and Margaret were speaking about the people twirling on the floor, laughing and smiling.

"Did Slickson disturb you, Margaret? You seem a bit distracted since he returned you to us," Maria whispered to her.

"He asked to call on me," Margaret admitted. "I told him no, that my affections were otherwise engaged."

"Oh, my. Margaret do you know what you've done?" Maria's eyes widened.

Margaret shook her head.

"You've as good as pledged your intentions for Thornton," Maria whispered, shock and worry etched on her face. "Oh, dear."

"It's alright, Maria." Margaret grabbed the older woman's hand, concerned by her sudden pallor. "I'm not concerned about it. I think he feels the same for me, in fact he asked to have a private discussion with me later this evening."

"But don't you plan to leave here soon?" Maria asked. "Mr. Bell believes you are almost done with your research, might leave Milton any day now."

"I have no plans to leave Milton anytime soon," Margaret answered. It was the first time she admitted that, even to herself. "I don't know that I would ever meet another man like John Thornton and I would hate not to see where our relationship might end up."

"You'll have to tell him quite soon about your travels, then," Maria said. "I doubt he'll believe you, but Richard and Adam Bell and I will surely confirm your story."

"I have no idea how to even broach such a fantastical story!" Margaret admitted, squeezing Maria's hand. "Should I say, 'Oh, John, by the way, I live one hundred and sixty years in the future, and I probably won't stay in Milton forever."

"Perhaps you can soften that a bit, dear." Maria patted her hand. "I imagine you must practice that explanation better before sharing it with Mr. Thornton."

"I suppose I must tell him sooner than later," Margaret said.

She watched John guide Mr. Watson's younger sister, Roberta, across the floor. A spinster of thirty or so, she was quite attentive to Thornton, batting her eyelashes and smiling at him. She was a pretty woman, would probably have found a man in Margaret's 2014 world. She had a nice figure, was pleasant and quite attentive to everyone she spoke with. Margaret wasn't certain what the woman's interests were, but thought it was sad that she was unmarried at her age, and might not find someone to love her.

Margaret swallowed a lump in her throat, realizing she could be Roberta one day. Margaret had an advantage though, she had two centuries worth of men to choose from, and had found one man in particular that tripped her trigger. The more time she spent with him, the more certain she became that John could be _the one_.

Really, there was nothing she found lacking in John Thornton. After the horrible day at the mill, his anger had not reared its ugly head again. He was interesting and intelligent. He made her laugh, took care of his family and was successful in business. His looks attracted her more than she could put into words, and she had a feeling he would make her an excellent life partner. Probably, he was exactly what she needed. Just maybe not in 1851 Milton. _Gah!_

"Richard," Maria turned to her husband, sitting on her left, "might we return home? I'm feeling rather light headed suddenly."

"Of course, Maria, of course." Richard stood. "I'll go say our goodbyes to Mr. Thornton and his mother. Margaret if you would stay with Maria, please? I shan't be but a moment."

They watched the older man first go to Mrs. Thornton to thank her for the meal and entertainment. Mrs. Thornton glanced to where Margaret and Maria sat together. She inclined her head toward Maria who raised her hand in thanks in response.

Once the music ended, Mr. Hale waited for John to lead Roberta to her brother, who had just danced a third dance with Fanny, before telling him that he and Maria were leaving. As his mother did minutes earlier, John glanced at Mrs. Hale. Instead of simply acknowledging her, he followed Mr. Hale to say goodbye to her.

"Mrs. Hale, I am so glad you were able to join us this evening," he told her. "I'll call my carriage, if you'll wait just a moment? Miss Bryce would you join me?" He held out his elbow and Margaret accepted it.

"She's very tired," Margaret explained as John guided her toward the door where his footmen were waiting. "She turned completely white a few minutes ago, and then claimed to Richard that she was feeling lightheaded."

"I could see you were concerned, which is why I brought you with me," he said.

"Oh, and here I thought you just wanted my company."

He glanced at her quickly, concerned until he saw her smirk and realized she was teasing him. He smiled in return and squeezed the hand she'd rested on his arm. He spoke briefly with his footman who was quick to comply with the request for the carriage.

"How are you this evening?" He stepped forward, and took advantage of the privacy of the small nook in the hallway to lean forward and allow his forehead to rest against hers.

"I wish I could dance these other dances," she said. "Then I wouldn't have had to watch you leading other beautiful women across the floor."

He pulled back and then caressed the side of her face with his thumb. "You are the only one I wish to be with tonight, but as host, I must be certain everyone is engaged."

"Of course I understand!" she answered. "I just wish there wasn't a house full of people vying for your attention right now." She smiled up at him.

A noise outside the door drew their attention from each other. The carriage was now in front of the house, which meant they had to leave their secret spot and fetch the Hales.

"You'll remain here with me, will you not?" he asked, leading her back up the stairs to the main landing.

"Yep," she nodded.

"Yep?" He laughed. "I take that means _yes_. I wonder if I will ever adjust to your speech?"

She chuckled. He had no worldly idea what he was in for, should he decide to stick it out with her.

When they returned to the sitting room, turned dance floor, they stopped first at the Hales, and said their goodbyes. Mrs. Hale looked very peaked to John, but he wouldn't comment on it, except perhaps later to Margaret. Clearly she was quite ill, and he hoped Dr. Donaldson would find something to help her. Maria Hale meant the world to Richard, and John knew he would be completely lost if anything should happen to her.

"It sounds as if the musicians are finished with their break," John told Margaret, bending slightly to the right to reach her ear. "Would you consent to join me on the balcony for our discussion, Miss Bryce?"

"Now?" She looked around. "But your guests, Mr. Thornton?"

"They all look rather engaged at the moment, do they not?" He took her hand and threaded it through his bent arm. "Please?"

"Certainly," she agreed with a hesitant smile and another careful glance around the room.

He led her out the double doors onto the small balcony overlooking the empty mill courtyard.

"Are you warm enough? I wouldn't wish you to catch a chill."

They stopped at the railing. He rested his right hip against the banister, while she stared straight ahead into the black night. Her dainty hands were white in the moonlight, contrasting with the darkness of the banister. Her profile, so feminine in its delicate proportions verily sparked and glimmered in the soft light. He wanted to ask her to marry him, just so he could look at her so intimately whenever he chose to. He wondered, not for the first time, what she might look like with her long hair hanging free. How would it look tangled on his pillow at dawn each morning?

"You asked to speak to me about two things. One dealing with your mill and the other personal." She smiled up at him. "Which will you begin with, John?"

"I like that, Margaret. I enjoy hearing you say my name."

"I'm glad," She said. Her hand inched toward his on the banister. She linked her small pinky finger over the top of his.

"I must begin with discussion of business, I'm afraid," he sighed, "for it may or may not affect how our personal discussion concludes."

"Proceed then, sir," she said, a wide smile lighting her beautiful face.

"Very well." He took a deep breath and clasped her hand in his. "Tonight, on the last train of the evening into Outwood Station, approximately one hundred and fifty Irish men and women will be arriving in Milton."

"I see." Her forehead wrinkled. She obviously didn't understand what that meant for Milton and the strikers. "No, actually I don't." She shook her head. "Why are they arriving so late at night and what does it have to do with your business? Oh!" Suddenly it dawned on her. "They will take the place of your striking workers." She said, her eyes widening. "Oh John, this won't end well, will it?"

He sighed and glanced away from her face. She was right, of course.

"I don't have much of a choice, Maggie," he said quietly, looking back at her. "I have two enormous orders due within three weeks and if the strikers refuse to return, I fear the mill may fail." His throat constricted on the final word. The idea of failure made him quite ill.

She stepped closer to him, slid her arms around his waist, and gently rested her cheek against the lapel of his formal jacket. He pulled her close, realizing he needed her embrace and comfort.

"Do you hold me because you are cold?" he whispered into her hair.

She chuckled. "I'm holding you because you smell very nice and I enjoy being in your arms."

Damn but he loved her.

"Do I usually have an unpleasant odor about me?" he teased.

"Oh no," she shook her head. "Not in the least." She chuckled. "The Irish John, how will your hands react?"

"I expect some uprising. Once word gets out that the Irish are here, I expect violence." He moved his hands to the back of her shoulders. "You must be extra careful over the next few days, Maggie as you travel to your school, or anywhere in Milton."

She nodded.

"Will you continue to support me, Margaret Bryce, even if the worst happens and my mill collapses?"

She pulled back slightly. "That is foolish, defeatist talk if I have ever heard anything! Your mill _will not fail_." She reached up and cupped his cheek with her hand.

He took her hand and kissed its palm before intertwining his fingers with hers. A shadow appeared out of the corner of his eye. Of course their luck would run out, someone was watching them.

He turned his head and realized the shadow was only his mother. She nodded her head and waved at him, as though suggesting he get on with it. What a gem! She was standing guard.

"Mother is watching the door," he chuckled.

Margaret looked around his shoulder and smiled. "How about that? The dragon is also a watch dog." She laughed. "Oh my, John I'm sorry to speak of your mother in that way."

"I hope you will adjust to each other," he said quietly, and then rested his cheek on the top of her head. "I believe the two of you are very similar creatures, Maggie. Stubborn and intelligent."

"And we will both stand by your decisions." She pulled back and smiled up at him, answering his earlier query. "And support you no matter what."

"Thank you." A deep sigh emanated from his chest. He bent and kissed her softly on the mouth.

"Was that the second part of our discussion then?" she asked, pulling away ever so slightly. "Whether I would support your decision?"

"I suppose that is part of it." He answered. He took her right hand in his. "Maggie, I wish to ask you… that is…" He ran his other, shaking hand through his hair. "My feelings will not be repressed," He bent forward and kissed the tip of her nose. "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and… love you." His lips found hers and gently pressured her sweet, soft mouth open to accept his ardor.

After a small moan, she pulled her face away and tightened her arms around his waist, resting her cheek again against his chest. He pulled her closer and waited for a response. Would she accept him, or had he rushed her? They stood like that for some time until she finally pulled away and looked up at him a huge smile on her face.

"You read it."

"Twice," he answered with a smirk. He'd stayed up two nights reading the damn book, trying to understand how he and Darcy were similar and different. "Mr. Darcy is quite the character. I wanted to know if we, that is _you and I_ resembled Miss Austen's characters." He released her hand and softly caressed her face, leaving it there to hold it gently. "I believe we do." He nodded. "However, you are superior to Elizabeth in every way, and perhaps I am not as stodgy and cold as Mr. Darcy."

She chuckled and then turned serious. "Do you truly love me, John Thornton?"

"I've never felt this sort of emotion before, my darling Maggie." He shrugged. "Being a logical man, I must conclude it's love. I've never cared for another outside my family as I do for you."

Her smile made him happy. "There is a line quite late in the book where Elizabeth writes to her aunt. She says something like, 'I am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps others have said so, but not one with such justice.' You, Mr. John Thornton, have brought me more happiness in the time I have been in Milton than I've experienced with a man in all my twenty-four years elsewhere."

"Maggie," He glanced over his shoulder to make certain his mother was not listening. She was engaged in conversation with Mr. Bell. Both had their backs to him and Margaret. This conversation was difficult enough without being concerned about being overheard. "Will you…" he cleared his throat… "Will you, dearest, loveliest Margaret, consent to an official courtship? Will you be mine?"

She laughed, tears in her eyes. "Yes, I would be happy to be your girl."

"My girl?" He laughed. "I like that."

He bent and kissed her softly, and then pulled her back into his arms, holding her as tight as he could without breaking her in two.

"There are some things I must tell you about myself," she said. "My life is a little more complicated than it seems."

"I trust you are not married?" he chuckled.

"No! Goodness no, nothing like that," she said with a shake of her head and small chuckle.

"Have you…" he swallowed, uncertain this was the time or place to ask such a question. "Have you been intimate with a man before?"

She flushed in the moonlight. "I am still chaste, John," she whispered. "I've waited all my life for the right man."

_I hope that's me._

"Well, I reckon you and I can muddle through anything else, then?" He caressed her face and kissed her again. "Lord knows I am less than perfect."

"No one is, John, but I believe you may be perfect _for me_." She clasped her hand in his. "So tell me, what does this courtship situation involve?"

"I imagine that is what you and I shall uncover with time." He shrugged. "Do people not court in America?"

"They do, but I'm not certain what it all entails."

He laughed.

His mother discreetly coughed and Margaret slowly pulled from his arms. Both turned toward his mother. He kept his hand on the base of her spine, just above her waist. _His girl_. He smiled to his mother, hoping she would understand how their relationship had changed.

"The musicians are playing the final set," she said. "Perhaps you two would enjoy ending the evening dancing together?"

"Shall we, Miss Bryce?" He held out his hand to her, and with a nod and a broad smile, she accepted him, much as she'd accepted his offer for their courtship.

He knew the next few weeks would be rocky to say the least, but Maggie's commitment to him, her strength and support would be enough to help him through it. He guided her back into the main room. Mr. Bell had escorted his mother to the floor for the final dance, and John situated himself and Maggie near them.

Happiness, unlike he'd ever known coursed through his body as he took Margaret in his arms for the final waltz of the evening. Soon the Irish would come. Soon the other masters would vie for his attention. Soon the strikers would undoubtedly revolt. But for the moment, all that mattered to him was the beautiful woman in his arms. _His girl_.


	13. Chapter 13

"_Sometimes it's hard to be a woman  
Giving all your love to just one man  
You'll have bad times, and he'll have good times  
Doin' things that you don't understand  
But if you love him, you'll forgive him  
Even though he's hard to understand  
And if you love him, oh be proud of him  
'Cause after all he's just a man.  
Stand by your man, give him two arms to cling to  
And something warm to come to  
When nights are cold and lonely.  
Stand by your man, and show the world you love him  
Keep giving all the love you can.  
Stand by your man.  
Stand by your man, and show the world you love him  
Keep giving all the love you can.  
Stand by your man."_

_Tammy Wynette ~Stand by Your Man~_

"Thornton, they are here already." Slickson breathlessly interrupted the pleasant conversation she and John were having with Mr. Watson and Fanny. John had just announced to his sister and Mr. Watson that he and Margaret were an official couple. Of course he had used some other fancy words to describe their status, but that's more or less what he meant. Neither had seemed very surprised by the news.

With a frown, John glanced at the large clock situated on the mantle. He'd told Margaret it was the _last _train the Irish would arrived on. That one was scheduled for midnight. It was not even ten o'clock yet, so, why would they be here a full two hours early? He'd planned their arrival for a time when the streets were vacant, so they could arrive undetected. They were too early.

"Miss Bryce, Fanny, would you excuse Mr. Watson and me?" John nodded to her and tilted his head toward Watson, indicating he expected the older man to tag along.

And with that, he left her standing alone with his sister. Would he take her home or was his evening now to be occupied by the Irish workers that would tear apart Milton even worse than it already was?

She might not have taken sides on the strike before this evening, but John had considerably balanced the conflict in his favor, to the detriment of the workers. Lord only knew how the workers would react when they heard the news that there were Irish aplenty to fill the striker's jobs and the factories would again be clicking along in the morning. How could she support John when he possibly ruined the lives of some of her friends? But, then again, they made the choice to strike. They had the right to better their lives, but she knew, in her heart, that they'd _all_ gone about it in the wrong way. Both sides were too stubborn to see the forest for the trees.

"Margaret you shouldn't worry so! You will create lines on that lovely face of yours." Fanny took her hand and squeezed gently. "John will do right by you. You know that, don't you?"

"It's not me I'm concerned about, Fanny." She turned away from John's sister, and locked eyes with one of the few men remaining in the room, Mr. Bell. Her gaze pleaded with him to join her.

He understood her expression and excused himself from the people he was speaking with, swiftly moving to her side.

"I suppose I shall see if Mother needs anything." The corner of Fanny's lip lifted in a slight smile. "Excuse me." Fanny left her as Bell approached.

"Are you unwell, my dear?" His concern was comforting, his mere presence soothing.

"Mr. Thornton's brought in _Irish_ workers, Adam," she whispered, aware others were watching them. "Milton may well be doomed by that decision." She swallowed, consumed with worry. "I want to leave."

"Leave Milton or just Marlborough Mills?" Adam asked quietly, his gaze intent as he studied her.

"Only the party," she said. "Perhaps Milton, too, but just the party for now."

"Richard said Thornton was to see you home?" Adam glanced about.

"He's left me to see to the Irish," she said. "Oh, Adam, they are _here_."

"I see." He nodded thoughtfully. "Shall we go, then? I'll be pleased to see you home."

"Yes, thank you." She nodded and placed her hand through his arm. "I need your calm."

She'd never been this scared in Milton. Arriving mysteriously in an unknown hotel, walking dangerous streets and visiting strangers hadn't provoked the anxiety she now felt. Was it for John? Was it for Milton, or was it because she knew the Irish arrival was a game changer?

Damn, what would Nicholas do? She'd been to see Bessy just that afternoon, her health seemed to be worsening with each visit. Her cough was not improving, her breathing was more and more labored, and there was not a damn thing anyone could do for her in 1851 Milton.

It suddenly felt very strange for Margaret to be in Milton, as if nothing was quite right. Had her appearance done something to the fragile space-time continuum? Isn't that what they called it on Star Trek? Maybe she was to blame for the chaos. Maybe this incident was what wiped Milton from the map?

"Good evening, Mrs. Thornton. It was a lovely party," Margaret told the older woman as she escorted them to the door. It _was_ a wonderful evening until the knobsticks, the replacement workers, arrived.

"John is preoccupied just now, Miss Bryce," Mrs. Thornton told her. "I suppose it is just as well you see his dedication to his work supersedes all else in his life."

"Of course," Margaret answered. "That is how it must be, I suppose." She gave the older woman a forced smile.

Mrs. Thornton had challenged her many weeks ago whether Margaret could find time for John to be in her life. Perhaps it was John that didn't have time for Margaret. He'd not been to call for over a week, after all, seemed to all but forget about her when the mill problems overtook his time. That wasn't Margaret's idea of a boyfriend. A work-a-holic husband would be less than ideal.

"Good evening, Mrs. Thornton." Adam opened the door and guided Margaret outside onto the porch overlooking the empty yard.

"What in the world?" Margaret cried.

A noisy crowd of workers had gathered just outside the gates of the Mill, yelling and screaming obscenities, calling for John to show himself. The wooden gates were being pummeled with such force, Margaret was certain the whole group would soon be flooding the courtyard. How had they not heard this inside the mill house?

"Mrs. Thornton you better return inside," Adam told her. "Bar the doors and stay away from the windows. Margaret, let us go." He took her hand and pulled her into the empty courtyard, looking over his shoulder at the gates as they creaked under the pressure of people pushing against them

"But how will we get out of here without allowing the whole horde in?" she yelled quickly, over the noise.

"There is a passage," Adam shouted back. "Come, along, make haste!"

Of course he would know of a secret passage. He owned the buildings. Adam pulled her along the wall, where their shadows wouldn't be seen. She tripped on her long evening gown and he helped steady her before they entered the main weaving shed. Inside, the Irish were lined up along one wall, getting checked in by Williams, John's overseer. She glanced at John, but he appeared otherwise engaged, so she moved passed him, closely following Adam.

"Where are you going?" John firmly grabbed her arm as they tried to sneak by, undetected. He was furious.

"Mr. Bell is taking me home," she said. "It's not safe here," she whispered, glancing quickly at the people awaiting his attention.

"You told me you would stay," he stormed. He was stressed, disheveled unlike she'd ever seen him, his coat and cravat both missing. "I said I would see you home and I will."

"But the Irish?" she argued. "Surely you will be occupied."

"Miss Bryce you gave me your word you would stand by me, and now you leave as soon as my back turns? Bloody hell. Williams!" He dropped her arm and stormed down the line of people to his overseer that was roughing up one of the Irish workers.

Damn, she'd messed up big time. She watched John pull William's off the young Irishman, slightly unsettled by his strength and the anger she'd not seen from him in weeks. But really, she'd seen far worse from the bouncers that worked at her bar in Oxford when the patrons became unruly. Williams was trying to keep the peace, John trying to keep Williams under control.

She turned to Adam. "Go on ahead. I'll be fine here."

"Margaret you should come! I cannot in good conscious leave you here, my dear."

She shook her head. "John was right. I gave him my word, Adam." She looked where John was deep in an animated, angry conversation with Williams. If she was _his girl_, then he was _her guy_. Which meant… "This is where I belong." She shrugged. _I'll stand by my man._

"You are a stubborn lass." He shook his head at her, looking suspicious. "Watch your back." He pointed to her with his index finger, bowed his head to her, and then continued down the dark corridor, away from them.

When she looked away from Adam's retreating form, she found John glaring at her. She'd stayed as he asked, why was he still mad at her? She walked to him. "How may I be of help, Mr. Thornton?"

He continued to glare, but then with a curt nod said, "Visit with the women. See if there is anything they need to be provided before they are taken by Watson upstairs to their lodgings."

"Is there a ladies room where they may refresh themselves?" she asked. That's what she would need if just arriving after a long train ride.

"Down that corridor," he pointed, "At the very end. Take this lantern." He took the light off the floor and handed it to her. "Write their name, their age and place of origin on this." He handed her a clipboard with paper and pencil

"All right. I can do that." She nodded and walked away from him.

She greeted each woman individually, there had to be fifty of them, and wrote down their details. As Williams likewise checked in the men, she escorted groups of three women down the corridor to the ladies room, and then led them to where Mr. Watson stood, ready to show them upstairs to their living quarters.

She soon lost track of the time, and became very efficient very quickly. The women were scared, far more nervous than Margaret. She found herself calm and collected in the chaos, answering their worries and concerns as best as she could. What choice did she have? She was representing John, too, understood that her actions would reflect upon him as a master, their boss.

As she waited for the last group of women to tidy themselves, she suddenly realized the noise from outside had subsided at some point. Had the strikers been unable to penetrate the walls and gates of Marlborough Mills? She released a deep sigh of relief, but knew it wasn't over. Tonight was likely only the beginning of the riots.

"Come, Miss Bryce," John held out his hand to her. "Good night Watson. Williams I shall see you at the morning whistle."

"Yes, sir," Williams said. "Very good, sir."

"Is everyone settled?" she asked quietly. She took his offered hand, and allowed him to pull her down the path she'd use with the women earlier.

Instead of answering, he stopped in the dark hallway and pulled her into his arms. "My God, Maggie I needed you here tonight. If you had left me, I would have been devastated. I saw you with Bell and felt my world crashing down. Not from the mill mess, but from you leaving with him." He cupped her face with his hands and dropped his head to kiss her with an intense passion she'd not felt from him before.

He gently pushed her up against the wall and leaned into her, his hands resting on either side of her head. He slowly, deliberately, teased open her mouth, joining her tongue with his. Her body was quickly on fire for him, she knew she would do whatever he asked of her that evening. She found the waistband of his pants and pulled out his shirttails, desperately needing contact with his flesh. Her hands splayed across his back, kneading the muscles of his shoulders.

Panting, he suddenly pulled his lips away and pulled her into his harms. "I want to make love to you, Maggie, but not like this."

She nodded, dazed, trying to get her own breathing under control. Her hands remained under his shirt, holding his back. What the hell was she thinking? This was 1851 not 2014. She shouldn't have touched him, but it felt _so _good and he was hardly protesting the contact.

"I've not been with a woman, my love," he whispered, his voice honey- thick. "I've never had time or inclination to attempt this courting ritual. You'll be my first." He pulled back to look into her face, and tipped up her chin with his finger. "It's my fervent hope you'll agree to be my last and only as well," he said, breathless. "I wanted to ask you to marry me tonight, to forego this courtship entirely, or to court as part of a betrothal period as we await our wedding day, Maggie, but I was fearful you'd say no, that it was too soon."

_Our wedding day_. How nice did that sound?

"I want to, John," she whispered against his lips. "I want to be your wife, but there are things… barriers you need to know about before I can say yes." She pulled her hands from under his shirt and cupped his face. "I neglected to tell you earlier that I love you." She stepped up on her tiptoes and kissed him again, softly, teasing open his lips.

"Do you, Miss Margaret Bryce?" he asked between kisses. "Do you truly love me?"

"Yes, Mr. Thornton. _Most ardently_." She went back up on her tiptoes and kissed a line along his jaw, from his ear to his chin and finally placed her lips back on his.

"We must stop, Maggie. Your kisses are quite powerfully exciting," he said. He gave her another peck on her mouth. "It's time I see you home." He haphazardly tucked the edges of his shirt back into his waistband.

She wanted to joke that he had perfectly good beds in the mill house, but by the look on his face, he wasn't open to teasing.

"You sound angry." She wasn't scared of him, not after the loving, gentle passion he'd just shown her, but she couldn't determine what continued to have him so upset.

"Not angry, my love, but I am painfully aroused and fear that unless and until I get some cool air on my person, I will remain uncomfortable." He picked up the forgotten lantern, took her hand and led her down the rest of the hallway.

He was horny. She wanted to laugh, except that she was probably as aroused as he was, nearly delirious in her desire for him. She'd been so lost in the kisses, she forgot they were in the hallway of his weaver's shed, where anyone could stumble upon them.

She struggled to keep up with his long strides and he traveled to the end of the shed. He slowed down when he realized he was dragging her behind him. He chuckled. "Your legs are short, my love. You must remind me to slow down when we walk together. I'm used to stalking about at a rather brisk pace."

Once they left the weavers shed, he took a deep breath of the cool air. "My carriage is parked back here. Earlier, I stepped out and asked that it remain ready for our departure."

After the stuffy weaver's shed, the fresh air did feel good. It cooled her flushed face and skin. John led her to the back of the courtyard where Simmons, the driver she'd met during her first trip in his carriage, was waiting for them.

"How did you get the strikers to leave?" she asked John.

"Slickson fetched the soldiers," he answered quietly. He wrapped his hands at her waist around her waist and helped her up into the carriage. He climbed up behind her. "They will remain on guard at the mill gates tonight." He held out his hand, beckoning her to join him. "Come closer, love, I wish to have your comfort."

As soon as she sat next to him on the bench seat, his arm slid around her shoulders and she curled up against his side. "Thank you for your help tonight." He kissed her temple. "We would not have finished so quickly were it not for your help."

She rested her head on his shoulder and kissed the area just below his ear. "I assumed you would be occupied all evening with the Irish. I planned to leave with Adam so you wouldn't need to concern yourself with me, too."

"_Adam_, is it?"

"Yes. I call Mr. Bell Adam." She felt him stiffen. She sighed, and pulled his head down to touch her lips with his. "And I call Mr. Hale Richard. John, it is _you_ I love."

That was all it took for him to kiss her again, deeply, passionately. His arm remained around her shoulders, and his other hand at her waist.

"Marry me, Miss Bryce," he growled at her lips.

"That is _not_ a very romantic proposal, Mr. Thornton," she chuckled and then grew serious. She stared into his eyes, needing him to understand it wasn't as easy as it seemed. "Once the mill business settles down, we shall talk about things in my life that may make it difficult for you to accept me as your wife."

"We've already discussed the two most important," he argued. "You are not married and you are a virgin. Truly, I cannot think of anything else that would matter to me, which I don't already know about you."

Were it only that simple!

"We are here," she whispered. Crampton was quiet this late in the evening. An unmarried woman, arriving with an unmarried man at this time of night might cause tongues to wag. She shrugged to herself. There was nothing to be done for it.

"This discussion is not over, Maggie," he declared. "I will be here tomorrow to finish it with you." He opened the carriage door and stepped down. He lifted his hand and helped her down.

"Tomorrow you will have mill business to attend to," she reminded him. She threaded her hand through his arm and smiled up at him.

They began to walk to her home, the only doorway still lit on the deserted street.

"Well, well, well, the high and mighty bastard Thornton." They turned in unison toward the rough, scratchy voice behind them. "I knew you'd bring the girl home from your fancy party. Can't get through them mill gates, this be the next best thing."

"Mr. Boucher," Margaret recognized the shaggy man. She smiled, hoping to calm his obvious anger. "Good evening." It was then she noticed the revolver in the man's hand. _Shit_.

"It ain't a good evenin' miss." He shook his greasy head, slurring his words. "I ain't had a good evening since Thornton here decided to let us turn out."

"Boucher, you had the choice. I didn't force anyone to strike," John snarled. Margaret pulled tightly on his arm, hoping he would understand he needed to soften his rebuke.

"Now you brought them damn Irish to replace us, I don't reckon there will be many more good evenings. I reckon my days have come to an end."

Abruptly Boucher shifted, aimed the gun at John and before Margaret could think through her actions, she screamed, "_No_," and lurched in front of John. She heard the click of the trigger and then the bang from the bullet's release. Searing, intense, hot pain ripped through her shoulder, the force of the bullet sent her sprawling backwards, hard into the light pole.

"Margaret!" John screamed as she hit the ground. He turned on Boucher "You bloody bastard!"

Torn between seeing to Margaret and getting to the shooter, he charged the man, but Boucher was quick to reload his revolver and then aim it at his own head. Boucher pulled the trigger and John immediately looked away, unwilling to witness the man's suicide. He heard the resounding shot and then the thud of Boucher's body hitting the ground. John hurried to see Margaret laying lifeless on the ground.

"Simmons," he yelled to his carriage driver, "go pound on the door until Dixon opens it." He scooped Margaret up in his arms, and rushed to the door of her Crampton home, only twenty feet from where she was shot.

Dixon was quick to open the door. "Mr. Thornton, what in the world?" She spread the door open wide.

"Oh Dixon, it's not good," he whispered. He pushed passed her. "Margaret was just shot by one of my striking workers. We need Dr. Donaldson immediately. Simmons go fetch him."

"He's already here!" Dixon screamed.

"What?"

"Mrs. Hale fainted and then began convulsing. Mr. Hale panicked and Dr. Donaldson has been here since. He's up in her room." Dixon pointed to the stairs. "Come along, I'll show you where to take Miss Bryce. Her room in all the way upstairs in the attic."

"Simmons go get the constable," John ordered. "He'll need to see to Boucher in the street."

John carried Margaret up the final flight of stairs, concerned with the amount of blood running down the front of her dress and that she remained unconscious. Dixon opened Margaret's bedroom door and stepped aside so he could lay her on the bed.

"Dixon, you'll need to remove the dress," He told her. John reverently settled Margaret on her bed, careful to shield her shoulder from too much jostling. "I shall step out and fetch the doctor while you ready her."

Before leaving the room, he glanced back at Margaret, laying still and pale on her bed. What would he do if he lost her? He sighed, and ran a hand over his face, disgusted with himself that he hadn't been able to protect her. He left the room, feeling like an utter failure as a man.

He knew the Hale's rooms were on the floor below, so that's where he paused on the staircase, and followed the sound of whispered male voices to the end of the hall.

"Mr. Hale, Dr. Donaldson," The men were deep in discussion. "I'm sorry to interrupt but Margaret has been shot." He choked out the final word. "She's up in her bed." Donaldson was quick to grab his bag and head from the hallway up the staircase, his footsteps tapping on the wooden floors as he went.

"What in the world, John?" Mr. Hale demanded. "Are you well, John? You are covered in blood!" John looked down at his shirt. Mr. Hale was right. "Are you shot, too? How did this occur? Where were you?"

"Oh Mr. Hale, I'm afraid it will take a long time to explain. I am fine." John sighed and looked passed his tutor to see Mrs. Hale laying lifeless on the bed. "Is Mrs. Hale improved?"

"We aren't certain yet." Tears clouded the older man's weary eyes. He blinked them away. "That's why Donaldson remained this evening. It would seem it's a good thing he did."

John nodded. "I need to return to Margaret."

"Yes, of course. Dear Margaret." Mr. Hale whispered. "We'll speak more once Donaldson returns, but do tell me if you need anything. Donaldson is a good man. He'll do well for her."

John returned to the attic, and paced outside, in the hallway, listening to Donaldson talking to Dixon. After nearly an hour, she finally stepped out and asked John to come into the room. Margaret was very pale, but breathing regularly. Her now unbound hair rested in waves against her pillow, a white bandage covered her naked left shoulder, traces of blood seeping through.

"She was lucky, John," Donaldson told him as he wiped off his hands. "The bullet itself hit a bone in her shoulder, shattered a small piece of it, but didn't break the shoulder bone. She's lost blood, but not a terribly large amount. The bullet didn't hit anything vital. I've stitched her up and except for the scar, she should heal completely. However, she does have a large bump on the back of her head, and I imagine that is why she remains unconscious. I believe she is concussed."

"What can be done?" he whispered. He felt tears coming to his eyes. She would be well, but this was all his fault. She'd been hurt protecting him!

"Someone must get her ice to bring down the swelling on her head, and her wound must remain clean to avoid infection." Donaldson handed John a bottle. "Here is some laudanum. Give it to her only after she wakes up fully and is able to carry on a simple conversation with you. I want her to regain consciousness before we put medicine into her."

John nodded.

"I have ice downstairs, they just brought a block this afternoon," Dixon told them. "I'll bring some up for her head."

"Excellent." The doctor smiled. "You will need to watch over her tonight, Dixon."

"No! No," John shook his head. "I will remain and care for her."

"But Mr. Thornton…"

"She and I have an agreement, Miss Dixon," John stated. "In fact we spoke of marriage only this evening as I returned her home."

"I see." Dixon nodded. "I'll go fetch the ice." She looked him up and down, but left.

"Quite the night, Thornton," Dr. Donaldson said.

"The man killed himself after shooting her," John said quietly. "He shot himself in the head. He's likely still in the street. I don't know if you need to see him or not. I had Simmons go and get the constable."

"I shall go have a look," he said. "Too bad he took the coward's way out, I would have liked to see Magistrate Thornton make his life a living hell in prison."

"She'll be all right?" John asked again.

"Yes," Donaldson rested his hand on John's shoulder. "If you can wait for a fortnight to marry her, she should be good as new and you will have a fanciful story to tell your grandchildren one day." He smiled. "I will go back and see to Mrs. Hale and then go home for what's left of the night, and call again in the morning."

John took a deep breath and looked back at Margaret, resting peacefully on her bed. The room was so comfortable, a cozy place to call home. It contrasted completely to the home his mother had created at the mill. Pillows were everywhere, inviting respite.

Her writing desk was between two windows. He walked there, decided he needed to send a message home to his mother, telling her about the Irish, about Margaret, and that he wouldn't be home that evening. She'd have to be the one to open the mill in the morning with Williams.

He took a seat at the desk and began writing, realized he needed to send Adam Bell a note as well, and soon was scribbling away, hoping Margaret would wake soon so he could see her beautiful green eyes and know that she would really be alright.


	14. Chapter 14

"_Oh, my Margaret- My Margaret! No one can tell what you are to me! Dead- cold as you lie there, you are the only woman I have ever loved. Oh, Margaret- Margaret!"_

North and South ~~Elizabeth Gaskell~~

Slowly Margaret regained awareness of her surroundings. She was parched, her mouth felt full of cotton balls or as if she'd been deserted in a desert. _Good one, Margaret,_ _deserted in a desert_. If she weren't in so much pain, she'd laugh. She opened her eyes just enough to see her Crampton room by the light of a single gas burning lamp.

The mere thought of moving an inch made her nauseous. She licked her dry lips and angled her head to the left. She squinted to make sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. _OH MY HELL._

"John," she rasped. "What are you doing?"

"I have no idea," he admitted. He lifted up his hand, cradling her IPHONE. "This contraption suddenly started playing music. It took me awhile to realize where the noise even originated from. It flashed a sentence telling me the time, and telling me to slide to stop the alarm. So, I did." His voice was rising in his excitement. "And then suddenly all these tiny squares showed up, and under the boxes was a picture of you." He smiled at her, wiggling the IPHONE in his hand, wearing a goofy smile like he just conquered Mt. Everest.

"John, I need some water, please?" she begged. Now was definitely not the time to be explaining her situation, but obviously she could not delay the inevitable for much longer.

"Oh, of course, Maggie. My God, what am I thinking?" He stood up abruptly. He set down her phone and then poured her a glass of water from the glass pitcher sitting on her desk.

He moved back to the bed and helped her sit up. He joined her on the bed, resting his back on the headboard, and let her lean back against his chest, giving her support behind her injured shoulder. Once settled, he handed her the glass.

"Thank you."

In a decidedly unfeminine move, she took gulping sips, feeling dehydrated and weak as a tattered rag doll. She finished the glass and handed it back to him, empty.

"More?" he asked quietly.

"Please?" she asked.

"Of course, my love." He slipped from behind her, and puffed up her pillows to catch her weight and support her shoulder. He poured another glassful.

She watched him fill her glass, understanding suddenly that he shouldn't be here. It wasn't right for him, an unmarried man, to be in her bedroom. What must the Hales think? And Dixon? And Dr. Donaldson? Oh Lord, she'd signed her fate. If she remained in Milton any longer they would have to marry or both of their reputations would be in shreds. Wasn't that what she'd decided anyway? If he could accept her as a _traveler_, she would marry him, quite gladly. Oh how her head hurt!

"John, I need my bag sitting over there on that dresser." He handed her the glass and then went to fetch her purse. "In the bottom of it is a small, white plastic bottle."

"Plastic?"

She sighed and closed her eyes heavily. Her brain was muddled. "Did I have any medicine for pain?"

"No," he answered with a shake to his head. "Donaldson left some, but said I must wait until you awoke." He dug through her bag and produced the bottle. "A-ce-ta-min-o-phen?" He studied the bottle closely, then looked at her, confusion etched in every inch of his handsome face.

"It's pills for pain," she explained, and then pronounced it correctly. "Push down on the top and turn it. It's a child proof cap."

He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. After she explained the IPHONE to him, he would definitely have her admitted to bedlam. Did they have Bedlam yet? She sighed.

He opened the bottle and tentatively looked inside as if expecting snakes to pop out at him.

"Shake out four, would you?" She knew that was far more than recommended, but really who used acetaminophen to treat a gun shot?

"You don't want laudanum?" He sat on the edge of her of the bed.

"I'll use it only if I must." She took the pills from his hand, popped them in her mouth and quickly drank down another large gulp of water. She hoped they would be enough. Laudanum scared her.

"I am so very sorry you are suffering like this, Maggie." He caressed her face. "You saved my life." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I should be scolding you for putting yourself in danger."

"I didn't really think about what I was doing." She shook her head and then winced at the pain at the back of her. "What time is it, John?"

He glanced down at his watch. "Just before four in the morning."

"Have you slept at all?" She reached up and cupped his face with her hand, so touched that he was there, despite the issue of propriety.

"I have not." He shook his head. "Donaldson said I must watch you and I have followed his instructions. Might I get more ice for your head?"

"No," she said. She smiled at him, feeling warm and fuzzy, that this strong, wonderful man had been watching over her to be certain she would be alright. "What you can do, John Thornton, is lay down on this bed and close your eyes for a couple of hours until you must go to the mill."

"Maggie you have been _shot_," he argued. "I shall not be leaving your side until you are well healed."

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "You have a mill to reopen in only a few hours. You must sleep or you will become sick yourself." She slowly moved over and then slid down lower on the bed, placing her head back on the pillow. She patted the bed next to her. "Come, take your respite." She loved using that word. _Respite_. No one used that word in 2014.

"Very well," he sighed. "If it will bring you happiness."

"_You _make me happy," she sighed and closed her eyes. "I am so very lucky to have met you, John," she admitted. "I never believed I would meet anyone as wonderful as you."

She felt the mattress shift from his weight. This was so incredibly improper, but she knew her heart was his and that if all went well, if he accepted her as she was, who she was, then this is how they would spend every night together for the rest of their lives.

"I almost got you killed," he choked on the final word. He gently pulled her back against his chest and buried his face in her hair.

"I will heal, and this was not your fault. It was Boucher's decision." Her eyes flew open and she stiffened. "Has he been apprehended?"

"He's been taken care of, yes. He won't bother either one of us again." He shifted again. "Are you comfortable? Do you need anything?"

She shook her head. "Sleep, John." She yawned. "All will be well."

He did sleep, but not for long, as the sun was ready to start its climb into the sky not ninety minutes after he closed his eyes. Despite the break in work the past two weeks, his body was still quite accustomed to waking at dawn.

Margaret continued to sleep. He would not rouse her, she appeared far too comfortable. He chose not to move, to remain snuggled in the warmth of her bed with her resting, so trustingly against him. He smiled, imagining what it would be like to wake with her each day, with her head on the pillow next to him, or just as it was now, on his shoulder. What would it be like to touch her as he wished, as often as he and she chose?

He stopped that train of thought, knowing she was in no condition to entertain his deepest desires. He wouldn't take advantage of her ever, but especially not now.

His gaze shifted from her beautiful relaxed countenance to the device he'd been manipulating earlier. How had that thing played music, music he had never heard before? How had she managed to get a likeness of herself on the article and what were all the boxes for?

He understood machinery, prided himself on being as current as possible on all innovations, not only in the cotton industry, but all others as well. How could a girl from Oxford- from America, really, have something he knew nothing about?

He glanced at her, decided she was sound enough asleep that should he move, go study the device, she would be none the wiser. After he stood and stretched, he leaned over her and pulled the covers up over her shoulders. He kissed her temple and then walked away, to glance out the window as the sun continued to rise.

_To love and to cherish from this day forward_.

How simple it had become. At his age, he had finally found a woman he could love and cherish, coddle and treasure for the rest of their lives. Yet, something significant barred her from agreeing to marry him. She loved him, of that he had no doubt. She showed it in her every action and reaction while in his presence. Her hesitation- her reticence had to stem from something… something usual, perhaps even relating to that device. Where the hell did it come from?

He picked up the white rectangular item. The glass top was blank. A small button on the bottom badgered him to touch it. He took a deep breath, wondering just what would happen if he pushed it. He glanced at his sleeping beauty before finally giving into his temptation and pushing the intriguing button.

The time suddenly reappeared on top, and underneath was Maggie's beautiful smiling face. Her hair was unbound. She was wearing something unique, trousers of all things and a white shirt with sleeves that were tight and quite short. It was well suited to her body. Lord she cut a fine figure, but why would she wear such garments? She was holding a piece of paper in her right hand, he couldn't see what it said, but her smile was striking, so the document must have some significance.

The bottom of the screen instructed him to slide to unlock. Once he did that, he jumped in surprise as the squares reappeared. He hadn't had the time to touch them earlier, she'd awoken soon after the music began. Now, he had time, so with another deep breath, he tapped on one of the squares.

It was sort of the same situation as when she awoke earlier, only this time, it was now light outside. John was still sitting by the bed playing with the device. He couldn't leave it alone.

"John?"

"You're awake!" He flushed guiltily and sort of sneakily set her phone on the table. "Um, would you like some water?"

"No." She giggled. "What were you playing on my phone?"

"That's what it's called? A phone?"

"Yep," she answered. "Help me sit up, would you?"

"Of course!" He rushed to do her bidding.

"Did you sleep as I asked?" She challenged him with the stern look in here eye.

"Yes, Miss Bryce, I followed your direction." He smiled, pleased she was being so bossy, touched that she cared about his well-being when she was clearly so unwell.

"Ah, such power I wield," she teased as her eyes fluttered shut. "Then you must do so, again, sir. You need to get to the mill, John." She grabbed his hand. "Go get back to work. I will be here when you have time to come and call. Dixon and the Hales can see to me, and if I need anything. Donaldson will come."

"The Hales will not be of much help, I'm afraid. Maggie." He sat on the edge of the bed, still holding her hand. "Dr. Donaldson was already here last night when we arrived. Mrs. Hale suffered an attack of some sort. She fainted and then experienced convulsions."

"Oh no!" Margaret sighed. "I knew she was not well. How horrible. Poor Richard. How is Maria now?"

He smiled a bit ruefully. "I haven't left your side, Maggie." He leaned forward and kissed her softly on her lips.

"I can't believe you risked your reputation by taking care of me." She smiled up, a smile that warmed his heart completely through, and made any risk completely worthwhile.

"I am quite hopeful you and I will soon begin and end each day together as husband and wife." He tipped her chin up as she looked away. "I should think that a betrothed is entitled to watch over his lover as she heals."

"As to that…"

"Tell me now, Maggie, I can wait no longer. Dearest, tell me what prevents you from consenting to our union." He reached over and picked up the mysterious device from her bedside table. "Does it have something to do with this?"

She met his eyes and silently nodded. She reached out her hand for the _phone_, as she called it, and he gave it to her.

He was mesmerized as she hit the same button he had earlier.

"You were playing _Angry Birds_? Really?" She laughed. "Did you like it?"

"I had no idea what I was doing, and suddenly I understood and was touching the glass top and the thing was flinging. Quite amazing really." He shook his head, still amazed by the device.

"I'll show you the significance of this all, shall I?" she asked.

He nodded.

She tapped the screen twice and then flashed it to him. He saw a full year calendar displayed. John swallowed. The year was 2014. His gaze flew to her.

"My time," she said. She stared at him for a few minutes before moving. He didn't know what to say. 2014? How could that be? His gazed shifted back to the device as she touched a few more of the lighted squares, then lifted the device upwards, in front of her face and hit a button. She handed him the phone, which showed him a mirror of himself. He made a face, thinking the image would change, but it didn't. He looked back at her, an expectant look on her face.

"It's called a picture. I took your picture." She reached back for the phone, and after touching the top angled it in such a way so he could see what she was doing.

There were numbers lined up in four rows. She punched a two, the plus symbol and then a four and suddenly a six appeared. He was in awe. He pulled it from her, and tapped out a larger number, shocked when the answer suddenly appeared.

His mouth gaped open. "What madness is this, Margaret?"

"That is called a calculator. Imagine how easily you can calculate your ledgers with such an application." She turned music on. "This is the music I listen to. It's quite different from what you are accustomed to. I hope you like it." She smiled.

He wasn't sure what to make of the noise.

"I am not insane," she told him quietly. "My head hurts significantly, but my thoughts are clear, John. I will tell you my story if you wish?"

"Yes. I believe you must."

He watched her take a deep breath and then close her beautiful green eyes and lean back against the pillows. His gut clenched, nervous about what she would tell him, what she thought was significant enough to keep them apart. The song changed. He wondered how many songs could be placed on that thing. This song he much preferred to the first one.

"Please know I have not lied to you intentionally, John, I am who I seem to be, at least at the most basic level." She swallowed and then opened her eyes and focused on him. "For the past two and a half years, I have been studying at Oxford University, _not _working specifically as researcher for Adam Bell." She paused. He didn't know what to say, hoped she would just spit it all out. "I have an undergraduate degree in both history and mathematics from the University of Chicago in America, where I grew up. While there, I earned a scholarship- called a _Rhodes Scholarship_ to continue my studies here in England."

She paused again, with a lift of her eyebrows, questioning perhaps, whether he had any comments. He decided he would wait until she was done. "Go on," he encouraged.

"My graduate advisor at Oxford is named J. Whitman Bell. For him, for my final paper, I was indeed working on research about the Industrial Revolution era in England." She frowned. "That's what historians refer to this era, by the way. From about 1780-1860 here in England. It took a bit longer to expand into America."

"It took a bit longer or it _is_ taking longer to expand?" Why was she speaking as if it has already happened?

"Allow me to finish. Please?"

"Very well." He was so confused, he had little choice but to allow her to continue.

"My research is just as I told you, the changes in class structure and culture because of technology development in industrial towns. But," here she frowned again and sighed, "the calendar I showed you on my phone is the year I was writing the paper. Before I appeared at the Blackmore Inn, I was indeed living in Oxford, but the date was February 2014, not 1851."

He stared at her. What else could he do? She was saying she was living one hundred and sixty years in the future before suddenly arriving here. She had to be insane. He couldn't marry an insane girl, but nothing else she had ever done or said or any behavior she'd engaged in would have indicated mental instability. He stood and walked to the window. He needed to see something stable, something firm, that he could touch, something he could fathom.

"My advisor," she continued, "didn't feel my research paper was ready for submission. He felt I was missing the feelings and emotions and true depth of the character of the people who work in your mills. So, he suggested, and lemme tell ya, I thought it was a joke at the time, that I go back in time and see it firsthand. That if I were to experience the sights, tastes, smells of this time,_ your_ time, I might construct a paper of true significance. And so, one afternoon when I was feeling particularly defeated and down, I jokingly told him that I would love to go back in time. Given the choice, what history student wouldn't do so?"

"So this is all just a joke to you?" He turned back to her, pain and sadness coursing through his body. He grabbed the windowsill as his legs weakened. He loved her, with his entire being, and she was telling him it was all a joke to her!

"Good God no!" She shouted.

He watched her slowly kicked her legs off the bed. As her feet hit the floor, he remained paralyzed where he stood. Her thin cotton nightgown hid nothing from his hungry eyes. The left side shoulder of the gown had been cut off to accommodate her bandage. He could easily discern her slender figure under the gown, her edges and curves pleased him exceedingly. Beautiful but crazy.

She walked to where he stood at the window, wrapped her good arm around his waist and pressed herself against him. He didn't budge. "John. This… _you and I_… are not a joke. I _love_ you. That is real, and true and so fierce I ache to be with you. I never wish to be apart from you. But, surely I had to tell you this fantastical tale before I agreed to be your wife! How would it have been had you found out later? Maybe years from now?"

"Margaret, I have never loved before." He stood stiff, refusing to hold her. "This I have told you. My life has been so demanding, there are too many things which have prevented me from forming an attachment to any woman. But now, I have found love. Indeed, I love you most _ardently_. And I will love you, even if I believe you to be insane." He caved then, felt his barriers crumble, and pulled her tightly against him, careful of her injury.

"I am not crazy, John. I've only fallen back through time." She shrugged like it was nothing extraordinary. Of course she'd had months to adjust to her situation. "I don't understand it," she continued, "but I am so very happy for it, because had it not occurred, I would never have met you. I would always have had something missing in my life, and may never have known what that- or rather _who_- was missing."

He tightened his hold, comforted by her soft words of love.

"But will you need to go back?" he whispered in her hair. "Are you able to go back? How precisely did you even arrive?"

She pulled away, held his hand and led him back to the bed. Once she was seated against the pillows, with him on the bed's edge, she quickly explained the conversation she'd had with J. Whitman Bell before being zapped back in time, what it was like when she arrived in Milton, and the she began to explain her connection to Adam Bell.

"So that story was false?" His voice was gruff. Bell wanted her. John saw that in every look, every gesture. He'd been jealous, but told himself it did not signify, he was old enough to be her father, he was her boss and godfather, but now… "He had no connection to you prior to your arrival in Milton?"

She nodded. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "but I had no idea how to explain my connection to him otherwise, and I definitely needed his help when I arrived." She cupped his face and kissed the tip of his chin. She was too short to reach higher. He took pity on her and lowered his face, gladly accepting her attentions.

"He's in love with you, I believe," John said quietly. He touched her hair, ran his fingers through the long silky locks, careful to avoid the lump at the back.

"No." She shook her head. "He is simply a _traveler_ as I am. That's what they call us, _travelers_." She kissed him again. "I don't know his full story but I would wager he's come back and forth through time often. I care for him, as a mentor, perhaps a father figure I have never had. And, after all, it would be up to him to see me back to 2014."

"You'll leave?" he barked, certain the pain from the question was obvious in his expression.

"Not without you," she answered immediately. She pushed back into his arms, comfort he gratefully accepted. "Home is where you are, Mr. John Thornton. If you'll still have me, if you'll accept that I am so far out of my element in this time, that I will probably say something or do something completely inappropriate at some time and embarrass you." She shook her head and then buried her forehead in is chest. "My ideas are progressive, and obviously I speak my mind. Can you accept I will wish to keep helping with schools and educating children who will benefit from it and contribute to the future of England?"

"I can accept all of that, my love." He tipped her chin up and kissed her. "All you list is what make you the woman I have come to care for. Will you promise me you won't leave me, Margaret? Promise me you will be by my side no matter what, that when times get rough, and they likely will, that you will stay, not retreat to your past?"

She smiled widely. "Did I not do so last night on your balcony? Did I not show you this as I worked by your side last night, as we faced Boucher's anger together?"

He nodded. "Yes, I believe you did. Thank you." He slipped down to his right knee, holding her hand. "Marry me, Margaret? Let me love you for the rest of our lives? I have no ring to offer, only my undying devotion, support and love. Will you grow old with me? Carry my children in your body, love me even when I can no longer waltz with you as I did last night?"

"Yes!" She sighed and cupped his cheek with her hand. "Yes, John Thornton I will be pleased and honored to be your wife!"

"Thank you, Maggie. Thank you." He stood again and pulled her gently against him to hide the tears forming in his eyes. He needed more attention than she could give him at that moment, but he was willing to wait until she was healed to accept her love.

A few minutes later, he stepped away, lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the bed and gently set her down against the pillows. He drew the covers up to her waist and stepped back.

"You must heal," he said. "Quickly." He grinned. He knew he probably looked foolish, but he'd never been so happy as he was that minute.

"You must work." She smiled up at him. "I will be well. Go to the mill, it's about time for your whistles to blow, isn't it?"

He glanced at her, then down at his pocket watching handing at his waist. "I will be on time if I leave right now," he said.

"You must," she told him. "I will keep for a while. Away with you, my love." She waved him away.

"I love you, dearest." He bent and kissed her. "Might I get anything for you before I take my leave?"

"Let's try some of that laudanum," she said. "Perhaps it will knock me out and kick this pain."

"Of course." He poured out a small dose and handed her the glass. He filled another with water.

"Ew, that is foul." She made a face and quickly took the extra glass of water and downed that, too. "That which does not kill us, makes us stronger."

"Who said that?" he asked. It was a good phrase, and quite true, he thought.

"Me?" She laughed. "Well, first, a man named Friedrich Nietzsche. I think he was born about this time."

It suddenly occurred to him. "You know the future, don't you?" His mind flew to the opportunities. "You know what is to come in the future of this world!"

"I do." She nodded and then finished another glass of water and set it next to the bed. "Some things anyway. The big things."

He shook his head. His logical mind was fighting against his love for this woman.

"You've known Adam Bell for years, haven't you? He can verify my tale," she said. "The Hales can, as well. They've all known other _travelers_."

"How many people have done what you have?"

"Adam gave me the name of several others here in England," she told him. "He worried if something happened to him, I would have no one available for help. He said there were people in America, too."

"Amazing." He shook his head. "May we speak more of this later?"

"If you wish."

He could see her eyes getting heavy.

"Are you certain you will be well if I leave?"

"Yes, John, please do go. I am well. I just need to heal and can do so while you work." She closed her eyes. "Kiss me again before you leave, my love."

"With pleasure."


	15. Chapter 15

"_I've got sunshine on a cloudy day.  
When it's cold outside I've got the month of May._

I guess you'd say  
What can make me feel this way?  
My girl (my girl, my girl)  
Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl).

I've got so much honey the bees envy me.  
I've got a sweeter song than the birds in the trees.

Well, I guess you'd say  
What can make me feel this way?  
My girl (my girl, my girl)  
Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl).

Hey hey hey  
Hey hey hey  
Ooooh.

I don't need no money, fortune or fame.  
I've got all the riches, baby, one man can claim.

Well, I guess you'd say  
What can make me feel this way?  
My girl (my girl, my girl)  
Talkin' 'bout my girl (my girl).

I've got sunshine on a cloudy day  
With my girl.  
I've even got the month of May  
With my girl  
Talkin' 'bout  
Talkin' 'bout  
Talkin' 'bout  
My girl  
Ooooh  
My girl  
As long as I can talk about my girl..."

The Temptations ~~_My Girl_~~

"Mr. Thornton, I do believe you are good and foxed!"

John laughed at the shocked expression on Mr. Bell's face as the stately, silver haired fellow meandered through the door of the Marlborough Mills office. The older, ever-elegant man had surely never seen John in such a state. "Welcome, Mr. Bell." John reclined in his chair and rolled down his shirt sleeves, pinning them at the wrist.

He wasn't a drinker as a rule, but after the day he just lived through, John thought this was the best way to cap off the evening. It was now half past ten in the evening. He'd slept perhaps two hours the night before, and then skipped luncheon and dinner just to deal with the unexpected issues that seemed to repeatedly pop up throughout that day. Most importantly perhaps, he was now betrothed to the love of his life. Incredible day, indeed.

"Join me in a glass?" John poured the older man a glass of brandy and refilled his own.

"What are we drinking to?" With a nod of thanks, Bell took the offered glass and sat across from John, in front of his desk.

"Any number of things, it would seem." John shrugged. "The strike is over. My hands returned to work this morning, and with the Irish employed I should have my next three orders done early, which, in turn, means I will be able to pay off the bank note I signed in order to build the third weaving shed last year."

"That is definitely drink-worthy." Bell raised his glass to John and downed the amber liquid. He took the brandy decanter and refilled his glass.

"There's more," John told him with a grin. "This reason is far more important to me." He leaned forward and pointed at Bell. "Margaret has agreed to _marry_ me."

"Congratulations!" Bell offered and then chuckled gaily. "I imagined _that _was the sole reason for your celebratory beverage consumption." Bell took a smaller sip.

"You knew?" John asked. How could the man know?

"Indeed!" Bell nodded. "I spent much of my day at Crampton, keeping both Mr. Hale and Miss Bryce company. As you can imagine, a woman like her grows restless rather quickly when presented with a limitation of activities."

Bell stared at John, a look of challenge in his eyes. Was he deliberately baiting John, trying to illicit jealousy? He shouldn't be jealous. John reminded himself of what Margaret professed just that morning. She loved _him_, not Bell.

"I trust Margaret and Mrs. Hale have had a calm day? Margaret said she would contact me if there was need of my assistance." John had sent both ladies bouquets of flowers. Mrs. Hale also received a large basket of fresh fruit, Margaret a box of sweets.

"Yes, they both seemed in fine spirits today. Margaret, stubborn as always, refused the laudanum and Mrs. Hale remained abed, but Richard assured me she was feeling ever so much better," Bell told him. "Donaldson came twice. He was well pleased with Margaret's shoulder. He gave her a sling of sorts to wear and she came downstairs for most of the day."

The two men stared at each other, each lost in their thoughts of Miss Margaret Bryce.

"She told me about her travels," John admitted.

"Yes, I know." Bell finished his glass and set it on the corner of John's desk. "She said you were rather calm about the whole thing." He chuckled. "Remarkable reaction, that. She'd been dreading telling you since very soon after meeting you. I believe she was quite relieved you didn't think her a lunatic."

He _had_ thought she was insane at first, but once he considered the phone… and all the things it could do… it was hard to deny pure fact when it stared him in the face. Adding numbers! He still was astonished by that. How much time could he save daily working on ledgers with just that small aid?

"I'm afraid I don't quite understand it." John shook his head. "Not in the least, truly. It defies all logic, every belief I have ever held about the world and its organization." He drank a bit more brandy and then set it aside. The effect of the liquor was making him a bit light-headed, something he could hardly afford when around the shrewd Mr. Bell.

"That it does," Bell nodded. He crossed his legs in a very relaxed pose. "Yet, she and I are both here, over a hundred years from the era in which we were born."

Margaret had traveled one hundred and sixty-three years back in time to Milton. He could only imagine what had happened to the world during that time. John thought much had changed in his own lifetime, but what was thirty years compared to one hundred and sixty? Her phone was evidence of some of the amazing changes.

"Why did you never go back?" John asked quietly. In the back of his mind, he had great worry that Margaret would simply cut rope and run if times became tough.

"Ah, that is a difficult question." Bell leaned forward and poured himself more brandy, and topped off John's. "This is quite good." He saluted John with his glass. "I came to avoid being a part of a war that I did not agree with. I had few options to avoid the conscription to come. I liked adventure, but not the thought of war and death. Time traveling seemed like a much better option. I wasn't convinced at the time that it was a legitimate proposition. But then," he snapped his fingers, "in Milton I appeared, much the same as Margaret did." He shrugged, staring thoughtfully into his glass. "I believe Margaret has shared with you her compelling reason for coming back in time, that you have had the opportunity to look at her research paper."

"Yes, she has. She's quite brilliant." John nodded, pensive. "Is there much war to come, Mr. Bell?" His tentative voice sounded odd to his own ears. John was never lacking in confidence. Talk of war, something he could not control, made him uneasy. "Is the world to be torn apart consistently throughout time?"

"I wish I could say no, but I greatly dislike to lie." He winked to John. "You will likely see little war here in England during your lifetime. Of course, Margaret is the historian. She would likely know more about the squabbles to come. Power, land, religion and politics." He took a sip and his mood turned melancholy. "The world will rarely be at peace, John. Embrace the joy you have now, and those who bring you that joy."

"I worry she will leave me," John admitted. It was unlikely he would have done so had he not consumed the amount of liquor he had. "Things are rough now, may well be rough for some time. I worry she will leave for her time when this time becomes difficult for us."

"Margaret _must_ return to her time," Bell stated firmly, decisively.

"No, she must _not_ return." John countered. What was the man saying?

"Hear me out, Thornton," Bell interrupted. "She has worked for three years on this research of hers. If she doesn't present it to her professor, she'll never have the satisfaction of feeling she's completed the project." Bell shifted, his pose no longer relaxed but ready for battle.

"She won't come back." John twirled his glass, watching the amber brandy swirl as a wave.

"You doubt your appeal?" Bell's lips twitched. "If she has consented to marry you, and having heard it from both you, I must accept it as truth, she will follow through on her word and return to you."

John studied the older man, hoping he was correct, but still fostering the thread of worry in his heart. Was he truly worthy of her?

"She showed me some technology from her world," John told him. "It's incredible, a device I could never have fathomed. The device, it fits in the palm of my hand," which he lifted up, "plays music, adds and subtracts numbers, creates the likeness of people… Who knows what else it can do? Why would she come back here when she has access to _that_?"

"Thornton, you know her quite well, I would say. Tell me what you believe brings Margaret pleasure." Bell set his glass down, and crossed his arms against his chest. His pinpoint stare made John squirm as if he were a schoolboy in trouble.

John pondered that question. So many things made Margaret happy. Although John hoped he topped that list, Maggie also loved teaching the children, visiting her friend Bessy, and spending time with the Hales.

"Being useful, challenging her brain makes Margaret happy, and being near people she cares about." Those were fairly obvious.

"Would you say she has she gotten on well here in Milton? Had you any inkling she was not of this time?" Bell asked.

"There were times she seemed… original… unique… certainly different from other woman of my acquaintance." He paused, smiling in consideration of the conversations they'd shared, their frank discussions, her acceptance of his kisses and her equal return of his affections. "I attributed that to her American background and her time at Oxford. Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed her from another place in time!" He laughed suddenly. "That, I suppose, is why she is unable to execute the dances of this time. I heard her music and it differs vastly from what we hear now."

"And yet she fit in almost seamlessly." Bell smiled. "Margaret Bryce is quite a woman." Bell lifted his glass in tribute and swallowed the last of the contents.

"You have affection for her." It was a statement, not a question.

Bell sighed. "Very few women have passed through my life and left such an impression as Margaret. I wonder… did she mention… has she told you… I offered marriage within mere days of meeting her?"

Shock rippled through John. He'd been right in his assumption about Bell and his attachment to Maggie. "She did not." Surprisingly, John was not angry about her omission. "However, she did indicate that she was deeply grateful for all you have done for her. I know your friendship has comforted her."

"You will care for her." It was stated as a demand. "I have no doubt of your love for her and that she will become a priority in your life." He smirked. "Perhaps she will ease away some of your anxieties and worries and you will learn to finally enjoy life, not to allow your mill to have full control over you."

He smiled, imagining such a life, with Margaret by his side.

"Have you told your mother of the engagement?" Bell finished another glass and set it firmly on the desk.

"This morning when I arrived for breakfast," John said.

That conversation had gone far better than John had expected. His mother had known his plan to ask for an official courtship, but she didn't expect that to become suddenly a formal engagement. It had been his hope all along Margaret would eventually become his wife, so he was certainly not disappointed in this outcome, and although surprised by the turn events, his mother didn't seem unhappy either.

"So, there will be a wedding I shall be quite excited to attend! But, of course she must fully heal, and you _must_ allow her to submit her research back to her J. Whitman Bell in 2014. I will be pleased to arrange that trip when she is ready."

John frowned, still not sold on the idea of het returning to her time. "You believe she would be happy here in 1851, without her fancy technology devices and conveniences?" John needed to hear the older man admit it. He needed someone to support his hope. Bell was the only one he could fully confide in

"I would say it would be up to _you_ to ensure that, John."

It was nearly midnight.

Margaret was distraught. John had not come to call that whole day. His flowers and sweets were wonderful, but no consolation for his presence. She missed him, need to know he was well, how his day had gone.

Mrs. Hale had a fine day, by the time she retired for the evening, she was looking almost back to normal. Margaret hoped she would be even stronger the following day. Her shoulder was sore, but not as bad she would have expected. Her headache was a nagging, dull sort of ache. It had helped for her to rest the whole day but now, at midnight, she was restless.

She grabbed her purse and removed some more pills, thinking three might do the trick for the night. She just needed _him_ there. That was a shock for her independent streak. She _needed_ him. She never needed anyone, had taken care of herself quite well for years. Now she not only needed John, but she relied on him for her happiness. Oh dear, that was scary. But, she reasoned, perhaps that was what love was all about, and she knew, at that moment, she not only loved John Thornton- not that she hadn't been certain of that before- but he was the only thing in the world that could bring her comfort and relaxation. She popped the pills and drank from the glass of water before crawling into her lonely bed. She shifted some pillows so her shoulder was supported. She left the gas light burning low, just in case she had to get up again during the night.

During the morning, she'd written Bessy and Mrs. Wilkinson, hoping one or both might come and call that day, but they didn't. It had been such a very tedious, long, boring day, not being able to do much of anything. Too independent, Margaret was hardly accustomed to being pampered, but that is what Dixon and Adam Bell had done, pampered her.

Ah, Mr. Adam Bell. What a kind man. John said Adam loved her, and rather than agree with him, which would have been the truth, she denied it. It was too painful to think the delightful man would care for her in such a way she could not, _did not_ reciprocate.

She leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Dixon came up before she retired for the evening, just to be certain Margaret was comfortable.

"Dixon, did any more messages come for me today? I thought perhaps Bessy Higgins would have stopped?"

"No, Miss. Mr. Bell was the only one here today, and he spent much of that time with you." Dixon fussed over her pillows one final time. "If you won't be needing anything else, I shall wish you a good night." Dixon nodded and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Margaret sighed. She was so bored. She glanced at her IPHONE next to the bed and decided that maybe she'd play a few games and then maybe she'd be able to drift off to sleep. Maybe.

"Miss Dixon, I thank you kindly for allowing me entry at such a late and inappropriate hour." John bowed formally and set his hat back on his head slightly skewed.

"Mr. Thornton!" She sounded breathless. "How did you get here, sir? You did not walk, did you?" Dixon peered through the back door of the Crampton home, dressed in a heavy robe, an old fashioned sleeping cap upon her head.

"Mr. Bell's carriage has just deposited me here," John told her. "Might I come in and see Miss Bryce?"

"Sir, it is very late." Dixon moved her foot to block him from entry. "She is surely soundly asleep."

"Dixon, I _will_ see Margaret," his voice was firm, a bit overbearing, perhaps. "Please?" he added, with a small smile, hoping to soften the order.

"Ach, very well." She moved aside very reluctantly. "I don't think we'll be getting rid of you, just as well let you in. But it's highly inappropriate!" 

"The day Donaldson declares her healed, Miss Bryce will be my wife." He swayed slightly. Damn, he shouldn't have consumed so much brandy. "Twenty years from now, you and I shall recall this evening with a laugh." John wasn't certain he would remember this evening even tomorrow after he awoke, but it sounded like a sound plan.

"I doubt that," Dixon said under her breath, but loud enough for him to hear.

He turned when he reached the stairs. "Mrs. Hale continued to heal today?"

"She had a fine day," Dixon said. "Good evening, Mr. Thornton." She carried away the light she was holding as she retreated to what he presumed was her room, leaving him in the darkness.

He laughed at her audacity. His servants would guide him up the stairs with the light and then return to see to their own comforts. Of course Dixon was not his maid, not really even Margaret's maid, but still one would think it a courteous gesture nonetheless.

He shook his head, and by the light of the moon shining through the many windows of the hallway, he stumbled up the stairs, which seemed to be oddly swaying as he climbed to Margaret's attic room. He didn't bother to knock, he simply opened the door and shuffled inside.

She'd left a lamp on, surely not expecting him? He grinned. This is how every future night would be. Well, minus the brandy. But he could easily envision coming home from the mill with her awaiting him in their bed.

She was laying on her side, her back to the door, so all he could see was the back of her head. He moved around the bed, shrugging out of his coat along the way, careful not to trip on her shoes scattered at the foot of the bed. His waistcoat and cravat had been abandoned at the mill office, along with his sanity, it would seem. He was about to crawl into bed with Margaret, with no care for her reputation or his. He knew he wouldn't sleep until he could touch her, be certain she was safe and sound. He couldn't have visited earlier in the day, but by God he would see her now.

He glanced down at her beautiful face, so relaxed in sleep, and was confident she was in no pain. Sitting on the chair next to the bed, he kicked off his shoes and unrolled his socks. He stood again and untucked his shirt from the waist of his trousers. Normally, the trousers would go too, but his determination not to make love to her might not be strong enough without them, so he left them on, unbuttoned the wrists of his shirt and then doused the lamp.

He carefully moved to the opposite side of the bed, crawled under the covers and pulled Margaret against him.

She molded into his embrace almost immediately. "John?" she whispered.

"Shh my love, it is late." He kissed the side of her temple and wrapped his arm securely at her waist. He'd needed this all day.

"You smell like a sailor," she whispered and then chuckled. "Are you drunk, Mr. Thornton?"

"Quite possibly, yes I do believe so." He kissed her again. "I apologize, my darling, but I found I had to see you. It was truly not an option this evening."

"If you've come for a booty call, I'm afraid I am not up to the task this evening." She giggled.

"A _booty call_?" He laughed at the funny words. "What in the world might that be?"

"A man spends the night at a pub… calls on, or crawls into bed with a woman…expects… you know." She shrugged and then moaned. "That hurt."

"_Booty call_." He laughed again. "Well, I wasn't at the pub or club. I was with your Mr. Bell at my office. And, in your condition, I would certainly never expect _that_ from you."

"And what if I were not injured?" she asked with a loud yawn.

"Miss Bryce if you were not in this condition," he said, "I would have secured a special license and we would have been married this very day."

"Oh. That quickly, huh?" She sighed. "That would have been far preferable to the day that I have had."

"Are you in pain? Do you have need of anything?" He shifted so he could see her face.

"I'm fine. I was just very bored today. I'm not much of a sitter," she laughed at herself. "I missed you," she admitted.

"I missed you as well, which is why I have come, even at such a horribly inappropriate hour." He kissed the back of her head where the lump remained. "May I stay the night with you, _my girl_?"

"Do not even consider leaving." She squeezed his hand resting on her stomach. "I love you, John."

"Love is not quite strong enough of a word for what I feel for you." He closed his eyes with a satisfied sigh. If he died tonight he would pass away a happy man.


	16. Chapter 16

Margaret shifted slightly, surprised and pleased there was no pain in her head as she did so. Her shoulder, however, was another matter altogether. It felt like a sledgehammer had smashed it. She sighed, realizing she might have overdone it the day before, and accepting that she might need some laudanum for the pain, after all.

She opened her eyes, half expecting John's face to still be lying on the other pillow, waiting to greet her. Instinctively she knew he would be gone from her bed. The mill would be operating every day at full capacity until they were able to get caught up from the time missed during the strike, but she was still disappointed to wake up alone.

"Good morning, Miss Bryce."

She jumped at the grave voice of Mrs. Thornton, and then moaned from the pain radiating from her shoulder to her fingertips. She sighed and bit back a curse before turning on her back, and shifting her head toward the older woman. So much for being alone!

"I'm sorry to startle you." Mrs. Thornton set aside her stitching.

"Good morning, Mrs. Thornton. I'm surprised to find you here." Margaret gingerly began to sit up in the bed, astonished when the older woman quickly stood and helped Margaret get settled.

"Proceed with care, my dear," Mrs. Thornton soothed. She fluffed the pillows behind Margaret's back and carefully adjusted the blankets for her. Once they had Margaret settled against the pillows, Mrs. Thornton returned to her chair. "To answer your concern, Miss Bryce, my son requested I stay with you until he could return to you later today from the mill. I gladly agreed to do so."

"Thank you. That is very kind of you." How unexpected!

Margaret's gaze darted around the room, trying to find her bottle of medicine. Last night's dull ache in her shoulder had turned into a full throb, making it difficult for her to even concentrate because of the pain.

"Is there something I can get you?"

Margaret was curious why the woman was being so solicitous, but decided she wouldn't question it too closely today. "I need a dose of medicine. It seems my shoulder decided it wasn't ready to heal yet. I'm not certain where the bottle is."

"Most certainly," Mrs. Thornton said. She stood and looked from table to table. "Ah, here it is." She picked up the dark bottle. "Do you know how much you need?"

Margaret smiled. "Donaldson told me I might just take a swig as needed." She chuckled. "I suppose that's what I shall do. Is there a glass of water available?" 

"Yes, of course." Mrs. Thornton handed her the bottle, and then fetched a glass of water and handed it to Margaret after she swallowed the bitter tasting medicine.

"Eww. That is the worst tasting liquid ever." Margaret made a face and shook her head. "Yuck. Bleh." She closed her eyes and shook her head again.

"If it cuts the pain, the awful taste would then be worth it," Mrs. Thornton said. "I still cannot conceive how you and my son became entangled in such a situation." She shook her head, as she set the bottle and empty glass on the table next to Margaret's bed.

"What did Mr. Thornton tell you?" Margaret didn't want to tell the woman anything John wouldn't have admitted to her. She knew he shared just about everything with his mother, but just how much had he admitted about their situation?

"He believes you saved his life." Mrs. Thornton returned to her seat and folded her hands on her lap. "He also feels unworthy of your love, but he tells me that you agreed to not only his attentions in a courtship, but now have consented to _marriage_, as well." She smiled, a sort of tight, brittle upturning of her lips. "I don't recall ever seeing him quite as happy as he was this morning, Miss Bryce when he gave me the news. I'm not certain what power you hold over him, but I ask that you please continue on as you have."

"You must call me Margaret," she said quietly. Her head fell back against the pillow. The throbbing was horrible. It wasn't a sharp pain, but an intense throb that reverberated throughout her whole system. "I don't believe I have any special powers as you say," she continued, "but I do care deeply about Mr. Thornton, and hope… well I hope I will be all that he could wish for in a wife."

Mrs. Thornton nodded twice, briskly as was her style.

"I hope you will assist me in the adjustment," Margaret added. "I can only imagine what must be required of the wife of a mill master. I've never managed a home before, either, so perhaps you will continue to see to things for a time, or perhaps a _long _time?"

"You wish to continue teaching?" Mrs. Thornton had the quirky ability to stare at her and appear to be digging into her soul.

"Yes." Margaret nodded. "Once I heal, anyway. I would like to continue at least until the young men I am working with are able to pass exams and enter Harrow."

"And the engagement period. Will you wish for a long one?" Mrs. Thornton folded her hands in her lap and studied Margaret. "John has not mentioned your family. Are they in America?"

Margaret swallowed. "My parents are both gone. Mr. Bell is all the family I have." She diverted her eyes, feeling guilty for the lie, but Margaret knew she could not share her secret with Mrs. Thornton.

"I see." Mrs. Thornton nodded. "I'm sorry they passed so young."

"Yes, it's been six years now since my mother passed. My father died when I was a baby." Not a complete fallacy, the man had passed out of her life when she was a baby.

"Has John told you about my husband?" Mrs. Thornton stared at her hands which she held tightly clasped in her lap.

"No." Margaret shook her head. "Well, he did say your Mr. Thornton passed away when Mr. John Thornton was young, and that was why he left school, but that was all. Miss Thornton must have been quite young."

Mrs. Thornton chuckled. "Tell me, Margaret, do you call my son _Mr. Thornton_ when you are alone together? When he sat with you through the night last night and asked you to be his wife, was it Mr. Thornton you answered, or _John_?" She laughed. "You may call my son John in my presence. As we will soon be living together, sharing life as a family, I think you must!"

"Of course." Margaret smiled, a bit taken by surprise at Mrs. Thornton's easy acceptance of her into their lives. She even said so.

"Margaret, I simply wish for John's happiness. You fill a spot that has been vacant in his life, a place a mother could not fill. I have loved him, cared for him, but a wife such as you will give him even more support and love. His business brings him a certain amount of pleasure, but his personal life has not been satisfied until you came to Milton. I realized this the first time I saw the two of you together at church and later at our home. It was that early I understood…even accepted that he was becoming attached to you. So, I must thank you for making him happy, and more importantly, I thank you for saving his life from that horrible man, Mr. Boucher."

"In truth, I gave it little thought. I saw Boucher aim at John and I reacted." She moved a bit lower into the bed, feeling the medicine already begin to work its magic. No wonder people became addicted to this stuff! "My head is spinning again." She closed her eyes.

"Take some deep breaths, it usually helps."

Margaret did as she suggested, and the dizziness did dissipate. "I would like to marry him soon. I see little reason to wait. As I said, Mr. Bell and the Hales I suppose are the only guests that would attend. Perhaps Miss Thornton- Fanny- would agree to stand with me?" 

"She would be thrilled. It means a new dress so, of course, she would be pleased to do so." Mrs. Thornton laughed again, rolling her eyes. "John's position as mill master and police magistrate necessitates somewhat of an elegant celebration."

"Of course," Margaret said. She'd never wanted a wedding with much hoopla, but perhaps John would appreciate the attention. His mother would do a fine job planning everything, if she was willing. "We will do whatever you believe is fitting."

"Thank you for such confidence, Margaret." She narrowed her eyes, and straightened her shoulders like a general going into battle. "This morning at breakfast John mentioned he would ask for Banns to be read already next week, if you were in consent, which would give us a mere month to prepare. We have a modiste that Fanny utilizes whenever she wishes a new dress, and if you would like, I can ask her to pay call tomorrow." She eyed Margaret's shoulder. "Perhaps she can take measurements and bring some pieces of fabric for you to choose from?"

"I understand white continues to be popular for a bride's gown." Margaret had no idea if that was true, knew that Victoria popularized the white dress when she wed. But that had already happened eleven years earlier.

"Any light color will look lovely on you, Margaret." Mrs. Thornton smiled. "I daresay you will make a beautiful bride."

Margaret swallowed back the sudden panic she experienced. _A bride_. _A wedding gown_. Damn this was really for real. 1851 Milton. She took another deep breath and closed her eyes. She loved John. She wanted to be with him, this would all work out for the best.

"Would you like to have a luncheon following the wedding at the mill house or would you prefer to have it elsewhere?"

Did they even have caterers in 1851? "How many guests would you expect to have?"

"Oh, well…" Mrs. Thornton frowned. "Perhaps fifty people? I shouldn't think we would invite more than that."

"Can the mill house accommodate that many?" Fifty strangers! How perfectly awful, but for John she would manage to get through it.

"We had more for the Milton Christmas party three years ago. For that celebration we invited one hundred." From the sound of her voice, it was clear she had pride in the accomplishment. "It was not a dinner, however, just wine and _hors-d'oeuvres." She shrugged. "We could have a buffet, procure some tables to have sufficient seating. Perhaps only invite thirty-five instead of fifty?"_

_"I would hate for John not to invite all he should because of space." She sighed. Her eyes were becoming quite heavy and her ability to form a coherent thought likewise becoming quite difficult. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Thornton, but might we discuss this another day? I'm afraid the medicine is taking effect and my mind is a bit muddled suddenly."_

_"Of course!" Mrs. Thornton made a __tsk tsk__ sound. "How foolish of me not to understand you might be in too much pain to think of these things. You must rest, Margaret. I shall help you lay back down and call for your maid to make some soup or something light for a meal while you have a small rest."_

_"Thank you." _

_Mrs. Thornton helped her snuggle back in the bed, covered her in a rather mother-like, caring fashion. "I shall go see Dixon, that is her name is it not?" At Margaret's nod, she continued. "I think soup might be best. I will visit with Mrs. Hale while you rest. Is shall return to check on you within an hour or so."_

_"Hannah," Margaret called out as the older woman was leaving the room. "Why are you suddenly being so kind to me? I thought… that is, you have challenged me at every possible opportunity, and now all of a sudden your attitude has changed."_

_"Do you not know what you have given me? You saved my son's life and brought him happiness." Mrs. Thornton walked back to Margaret and stood next to the bed. "When you have children… my grandchild…" she smiled, a true, genuine smile, "you will understand that there is nothing more precious in the world than seeing them happy. You, Miss Margaret Bryce have done that for John, and in doing so, have given me my fondest wish." She swallowed, her eyes becoming damp. "I believe I will do whatever I might in the future to bring you happiness. As I have become better acquainted with you and your… unique… ways, I have realized I was far too critical of you in the beginning. It's clear to me now you are strong enough and well deserving to be John's wife."_

_Margaret nodded again, and yawned as she closed her eyes. "Thank you, Hannah. I want your son to be happy, and if my being his wife will cause that, I am all for it." _

_Maybe she was dreaming, or maybe, just maybe Mrs. Thornton would turn out to be a fine friend after all._

"Well Watson, what's it to be?" John reclined in his chair at the mill office, taking the first break from the mill floor all day. As he leaned back, he folded his sleeves above his elbow and crossed his legs. He well knew what the man wanted, had known since their conversation on Friday evening, but he wanted to see the older man sweat a bit.

"I find myself in a rather awkward position, Thornton." Watson crossed his legs and then studied the nails of his left hand. He cleared his throat and looked up at John. "I've come to ask for Fanny's hand in marriage."

"I see." Just as he'd been expecting at this Sunday afternoon appointment. Between caring for Margaret, sleeping with Margaret and obsessing over his feeling for Margaret, he'd been pondering what he would say during this meeting. "I have some concerns."

"Such as?" Watson demanded.

"Why do you wish to have Fanny?" That should be an easy one for the man to answer.

"Well," Watson started, "she's a beautiful, graceful young woman."

John waited, expecting more reasons to come from Watson, but after several minutes when he said nothing more, John decided he must continue. He knew his sister Fanny far better than anyone.

"A beautiful face will fade in time, Watson." He raised his brows. "Is there nothing else to recommend her?"

Watson paled and then cleared his throat. "Why must I justify this to you, Thornton? The reasons are my own. I am able to keep her in a comfortable manner, equivalent to what she has known at Marlborough Mills. What more could you ask for in a husband for your sister? I believe she will be pleased to accept my offer."

"So have you asked her already? _Has_ she accepted you?"

The older man cleared his throat. "I have not formally offered just yet, but I expect I have made my intentions on the matter quite clear. She has willingly accepted my affections."

Now that phrase caught John's attention. His eyebrows shot high, clear to the edge of his hairline. "What do you mean precisely, Watson?" His voice was a growl. "_Willingly accepted your affections_?"

Watson looked up at John's piercing stare and then retreated his gaze back to his folded hands. "I fear I erred." John watched the man's Adam's apple bob several times. "I have compromised Fanny." It was spewed so quickly, mumbled in almost silence, John wasn't certain she'd heard correctly.

"Compromised? Care to elaborate?" In John's anger he gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched.

"I would rather not."

John slammed his fist on the desk. "How dare you?"

Watson snorted. "I might ask you the same. Miss Bryce is certainly not beyond your very own attentions."

"She is to be my _wife,"_ he yelled. "The very instant Donaldson declares her healed from the gun shot we will wed. You will _not _discuss her in such a way!"

"Well Fanny is to be _my _wife as soon as you bloody well consent to it," Watson retorted, equal in vehemence and volume.

The two men stared at each other, two stubborn fools at odds over the same circumstance. John finally backed off and sighed. He ran a weary hand across his face. Opening the bottom drawer of his desk, he slid out the brandy bottle from the night before, along with two small glasses. Setting the glasses on the desk, he filled both, and handed Watson one.

"I suppose if she is willing to take you on, I must welcome you to the family." John lifted his glass in salute and quickly downed the contents.

Watson finished his glass in equal time, then reached for the bottle to refill both glasses. "Don't look so glum. I'm certain to make a fine brother-in-law. In turn, I shall offer you felicitations in marriage, Thornton." He saluted John with the newly refilled glass and took a smaller sip. "Had you not claimed Miss Bryce as early as you did, I believe there were several others in wait."

"Who?" An unreasonable amount of jealousy suddenly shot through John. Had she encouraged anyone other than him? Surely not! Not even in the beginning when all they would do is misunderstand each other and argue would she have been interested in another. Right?

"That young banker fellow, Morris, has been asking after her quite a bit. Even yesterday when I saw him, he inquired after her. Slickson, too, had his smarmy eyes on her. Hell, if I didn't know better, Mr. Bell had his ancient eyes set on her."

John knew about Bell, of course. He and the older man had discussed it only the night before. John couldn't place the Morris name, couldn't picture him in his mind. Slickson? He frowned. He'd been wife hunting for the past few years. The thought of his slimy hands on Margaret made him squirm in his seat.

"I don't know the Morris fellow," John admitted with a frown.

"Young bloke, perhaps five and twenty." Watson shrugged. "His uncle owns a London bank, and he comes here to do business with Lattimer on occasion. I've met him a few times. He's often at the concerts here."

Concerts! Surely that's where he and Margaret would have crossed paths. "I see."

"How is she faring? Miss Bryce, that is." Watson took a sip of his brandy.

"Healing." He sighed, wishing he was with her instead of here. "My mother is with her today, helping as she might need."

"Your mother." Watson snorted. "How will the dragon adjust to sharing your mill house with Miss Bryce? I daresay that will be a challenge for both of them." He laughed at his own joke and John wondered just how many people called her the _dragon_. "At least Fanny won't have to contend with my parents for in-laws, they have been gone for quite some time."

John smiled. "It will be a change for us all." He, for one, was looking forward to Margaret's presence in his home, in his bed. "But, with Fanny moving soon to be with you… well, we will have to adjust to it all." Perhaps his mother would split her time between Fanny's home and the house at Marlborough Mills. He and Margaret might get a little privacy then.

"Well, Thornton, with your approval, I shall go pay call on your sister and secure her consent?" Watson stood, adjusted his trousers, straightened the sleeves on his suit coat, and finally tightened his cravat.

"Shall I get you a mirror?" John quipped.

"Funny, Thornton. I suppose I should admit to being a bit nervous that she may refuse."

"Get on to it then, man." John saluted with his brandy glass. "I shall wish you much luck and happiness! I will visit the attorney tomorrow when I have a chance and have some settlement papers drawn up."

"I may need that luck!" Watson rolled his eyes toward John and walked out of the office, closing the door quietly behind him.

John wasn't certain what he felt at that moment. He'd cared for Fanny since he was fifteen. Nearly twenty years, almost her entire life. John had been more of father to her than a brother, although he supposed they became one in the same as time went along.

Had he even shared with Margaret the scandal his father wrought on their lives? He frowned into his brandy. Tonight should probably be the night to do so. He glanced at his clock. The last shift would end in two hours. He decided to stay until the whistle blew, and then head to Crampton where his future was waiting for him. Just the thought of her beautiful smile would be enough to get him through the last few hours.

John trudged his way across town, hastily covering the two miles to get to Margaret. His mother had the carriage, so he had little choice but to walk or hire a cab. Having been tied to his desk for the lion's share of the day, walking seemed far more logical for him.

A cold rain had begun to fall, reminding him it was not yet spring, and leaving him damp as he climbed the stairs and stopped at the doorstep of the Hale's and Margaret. He rapped twice and waited patiently until Dixon threw open the door.

"Mr. Thornton," she said. "You are soaking wet, sir. Do come in!" She stepped aside.

Almost immediately Margaret appeared behind Dixon in the hallway. He smiled broadly her direction. She had been waiting for him! "Mr. Thornton. You have come!" Dixon left them for the back of the house.

Her smile was radiant, and she looked quite well, dressed in a light blue day gown, with a sling cradling her arm against her chest. He met her half-way.

"How are you, my dear?" He bent and kissed her rosy cheek. He was so happy to see color back in her cherubic face. "You look quite fetching this evening."

She did a small curtsey and grabbed his hand and squeezed. "I feel very good. There is a little pain in my shoulder, but it's tolerable. You, however, are all wet. Take off your boots and coat, darling. I won't be pleased if you suddenly take ill." She reached for his coat.

He chuckled. "I can manage, Maggie. Certainly better than you with a single hand." He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then removed his coat and kicked off his low boots. "I'll set them by the fire and they will be dry in no time."

"Come along, then." She pulled on his free hand, leading him along to the study. "The Hales and Mr. Bell are visiting with your mother in here," she said.

He gladly trailed behind her like a puppy dog. He was reminded again how short she was, like a short little sprite full of energy. It was a relief to see her liveliness and spirit returned to almost normal.

Margaret watched John's profile as he chatted with Mr. Bell. Had she thought him at first as handsome as she did now? Perhaps it was because his early scowl was now replaced with a smile more often than not. Maybe it was the fact she knew his heart, knew what an amazing man he was, that her love saw beyond his imperfections. In any case, he was freaking gorgeous and would soon be her husband!

Although she had already told everyone herself, John took the opportunity to announce their engagement. She could see the pride he felt as he looked at her, as he accepted the congratulations of the Hales, whom he respected, Mr. Bell, who she knew he admired as a mentor and of course, most of all, his mother who he loved with his whole heart. Margaret knew Mrs. Thornton acceptance of Margaret into the family was vital to John's happiness.

"I should be getting home." Mrs. Thornton stood, creating the domino effect of the men standing in respect. "I thank you for dinner, Mrs. Hale." She bowed her head toward Maria who smiled.

"I've been thinking," John said, causing Mrs. Thornton to pause in her departure. "Perhaps Margaret might join us at the mill house now?" He lifted his eyebrows. "It would be far easier to care for you at my home, Maggie, and perhaps selfishly, I could check on you throughout the day, and that would ease my mind considerably."

"John!" Mrs. Thornton huffed. "Surely you can wait until she is well enough to say your vows? It seems she is well cared for here?"

"I believe over the next few weeks my time will continue to be quite consumed by mill work. Knowing that Margaret is under my roof, under my protection…" He shrugged. "Please, Mother? Margaret? Will you two agree to ease my worries?"

Margaret glanced at John's mother. It was obvious from her expression she wasn't pleased with the idea. Margaret, in contrast, was excited about beginning her life in the mill house.

"I would not be averse to coming, but Mrs. Thornton- Hannah- if you wish to me to wait, I shall."

Mrs. Thornton stared at her, giving no indication of the thoughts that might be scattering through her head. Her face was not as severe as it had been moments before, but it wasn't much more welcoming. Mrs. Thornton turned from Margaret and glanced at John. Margaret wondered if Mrs. Thornton could see how much he hoped she would agree. Even Margaret could see it written clearly on his face, how much he wanted Margaret at his home.

"Aye, she can come, John." Mrs. Thornton sighed deeply. Margaret thought Mrs. Thornton realized she was overruled. "Margaret you will be welcome. Marlborough Mills shall now be your home as well." She extended both her hands to Margaret, who gratefully clasped them in her one good hand.

"I thank you!" Margaret smiled at Mrs. Thornton and then quickly looked at John, who was beaming like the beacon on a lighthouse.

"Margaret," Mrs. Hale interrupted. "I will be sad to see you go so soon." She pulled Margaret into a hug. "Are you certain you are ready to leave?"

She slowly pulled away from Maria. "I am ready." She looked from Maria to John and winked at him.

"Take what you need for tonight," Maria said. "I will have Dixon see to the rest of your packing, if you'd like?"

"Are you certain?" Margaret didn't like the idea of adding to Dixon's labors.

"Well _you_ can hardly see to it with your shoulder in such a state!" Mrs. Thornton sputtered.

"Yes, but…"

"No buts…" Maria shook her head. "Dixon will see to it." She turned to John. "Would you send for it tomorrow evening, Mr. Thornton? Have you a manservant to come and fetch it? That will give us the day to pack."

Maria and John discussed the details, as if Margaret wasn't even in the room. She wanted to chuckle, but instead bit back a smile. It was so queer to be so fussed over. She'd never had so many people who cared about her, and she found it exceedingly strange.

"I'll go up and gather a few things I will need until tomorrow then?"

"Yes, Margaret, do go on," Maria told her, shooing her away with the wave of her hand. "Mr. Thornton perhaps you could carry her bag for her?"

"Of course." He smiled at Maria and then extended his hand to Margaret. "Shall we?"

They left the study and walked up the staircase to the attic in silence. She opened the door to her room as he waited patiently behind her as she entered.

"You can come in, John." She grinned at him.

He crossed the threshold, but still looked uncomfortable.

"What's the matter?" She walked up to him and placed a gentle hand on his chest. His jacket was still drying near the fireplace downstairs which allowed her to feel the muscles of his chest through his thin silk waistcoat.

His hands rested on the sides of her waist and he leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. "I am struggling to keep my hands off of you," he whispered. "It's far easier when there are others around, but when it is just you and me…"

"Oh," she chuckled. "Is that all? And here I was worried it was something serious." She slid her good arm around his narrow waist and pulled him against her. "Don't struggle, my darling. I'm perfectly pleased to have your hands all over me." She tipped her head up and gladly accepted his kiss.

He was restrained to start. She could sense the tension in his lips as he connected with hers over and over again. After a few chaste kisses Margaret grew impatient and slipped her tongue between his lips, releasing a dam of emotions and a satisfied sigh from John. His tongue met her greedily, teasing the inside of her mouth, turning her knees to mush. She moaned his name and led him toward her bed where she sat on the edge.

"Margaret we cannot," he whispered, pulling her off the bed. "Perhaps…" she watched as he flushed, "perhaps this evening, in my home… _our_ home… but," he swallowed, "Mother is surely waiting for us."

Margaret sighed. "_Our_ home, hmm? How nice that sounds." She snaked her hand back around his waist and laid her cheek against his shoulder.

"I do as well." He kissed her temple. "Let's get you packed, and we shall then start the next chapter in our lives." He tipped her chin up with his fingertips. "Our lives _together_."

She smiled and immediately started pulling necessities out, readying for the evening and the following day.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N This chapter heats up a bit in a intimate nature. Most of the book has been PG.. this is probably an "R" rated chapter. I hope that I've written their love scene tastefully. Please let me know if you disagree. It is a loving relationship John and Maggie have developed and IMHO it's quite natural for them to express their love in a physical way, especially now they will soon be married. Thanks. Julia...**

"_There you stand, opened heart, opened doors  
Full of life with a world that's wanting more  
But I can see when the lights start to fade  
The day is done and your smile has gone away_

Let me raise you up  
Let me be your love

May I hold you as you fall to sleep  
When the world is closing in  
And you can't breathe here  
May I love you, may I be your shield  
When no one can be found  
May I lay you down

All I want is to keep you safe from the cold  
To give you all that your heart needs the most

Let me raise you up  
Let me be your love

May I hold you as you fall to sleep  
When the world is closing in  
And you can't breathe here  
May I love you, may I be your shield  
When no one can be found  
May I lay you down"

Trading Yesterday ~~May I~~

"This will be your chamber, Margaret." Mrs. Thornton pushed open a door at the end of the hallway of the second floor of the mill house, and then led her inside.

"It's lovely," Margaret breathed. What an understatement! This was a room to rival any five star hotel room.

Pale blue striped wallpaper decorated the high walls. The cushy, thick bedding on the enormous wooden four-poster bed, matched the walls perfectly, as if it had been custom made. Perhaps it had been. Pillows were piled high, inviting a long nap, which she could use about right now.

"In all the years we have lived here, no one has ever used this room," Mrs. Thornton told her, glancing about the enormous room. She flicked an invisible piece of fuzz off the corner of the bedspread. "It's been saved especially for John's future wife." She paused, shooting Margaret a meaningfully look. "I have a full suite at the back of the house, similar in size to this one. Fanny is next to me with her own chamber."

"And John?" Margaret asked. "Where is his room?"

"Right through here, and this is the third room of your suite." She walked to another door in the room, one Margaret had initially thought was perhaps a closet. Mrs. Thornton opened that door and walked through, leaving Margaret to decide if she would follow or not. She did. It wasn't a closet, but another large room.

"This is to be your private sitting room. Yours and John's that is. He uses it at times to work on ledgers and mill matters, I believe. You will notice his writing desk." She pointed to the large wood desk occupying much of the corner of the room, where ledger books were piled high.

The sitting room, about half the size of her assigned bed chamber, had very little ornamentation, rather looked to be a fine space for office work and little else. Margaret wasn't an interior decorator by any stretch of the imagination, but surely she could soften the masculine edges and make this- the only private space in the whole house she and John would have- more warm and welcoming. She held back a chuckle. She was already thinking like a wife!

_A wife_! She'd been a student, and independent woman for so long… what would being a wife, to a man almost ten years older than her, be like? He was a _man_, not like the young, irresponsible fools she'd met while Oxford. She held back the urge to pinch herself.

"Through this door," Mrs. Thornton pointed, drawing Margaret out of her woolgathering, "is John's bed chamber."

"I see." Margaret smiled, relieved he would be so close to her. She was apprehensive to be in this mill house, another new place, with strangers.

"Sally will be your ladies maid, if she pleases you. If not we…" she cleared her throat, "you- can interview others from the staff. I do believe she will do a fine job."

"Thank you for thinking of that for me," Margaret said. "I trust your judgment. I've seen to my own needs for so long, I don't know what I will do with a maid of my own." She shrugged with a smile. Margaret was beginning to realize how life would soon be so different. Gah!

She fought the desire to peek inside John's room, realizing Hannah wouldn't be pleased with that. Indeed, Margaret was still shocked Hannah allowed her to be in the mill house at all, without a wedding ring on her finger. It was further unbelievable that she'd placed Margaret so close to John.

Margaret continued to stare at his door, wondering if he was he fastidious or careless. Did his valet maintain order or were John's boots haphazardly thrown about? Was his room musky and leathery like his scent, or did it smell fresh, like cleaned linens?

"This evening, and every evening really, I read from Matthew Henry's Bible Commentaries." Mrs. Thornton folded her hands in front of her. "I begin at half passed nine. John is generally home and done with work by then and the servants have not yet retired. It is my hope that we can continue this, that you with participate as well."

"I see." Margaret nodded, aware of the seriousness of the invitation. It was as if she was now part of the inner fold. Margaret wasn't familiar with Matthew Henry. Bible Commentaries? "Perhaps I could join you beginning tomorrow? I'm rather weary tonight as you can understand." She probably would fall asleep right in the middle of Mrs. Thornton's reading. That would hardly get her off on a good footing.

"Tomorrow will be quite alright." Mrs. Thornton nodded. "I shall send Sally up to tend to you." Mrs. Thornton moved to the door that led to the hallway from the sitting room. "John will surely wish to see you before he retires for the night. If you need anything, don't hesitate to ring a servant."

"Thank you, Hannah."

"Margaret, this is your home now." She patted Margaret's forearm and then squeezed it. "Do what you must to feel comfortable. John will surely offer you an allowance, as most husbands do. That was you will be able to buy whatever you would like."

Margaret swallowed the lump in her throat. She'd always earned her own way in life. She would need to have a conversation with her fiancé. Would he allow her to continue to work? She sighed. Perhaps he would compromise? Let her work until she was pregnant or until a baby arrived? A baby! She flushed, a sudden burst of nervous euphoria shooting through her.

Hannah moved away from her, toward the open door which led to the hallway. "Good night, Margaret. Sleep well."

Margaret remained in the sitting room, wandering from piece of furniture to piece of furniture, envisioning her life here, as Mrs. John Thornton. Maggie Thornton. She smiled, loving the way it played through her head. It felt so _right_.

She walked to the pair of chairs angled I front of the fireplace. She sat down on one of them, deciding to relax in front of the fire until Sally, the maid, arrived. Margaret stretched out her legs, sprawled rather unladylike. Had J. Whitman Bell any idea what life would bring to her in this time? She'd wondered why he'd chosen this place, a place not even on a 2014 map. Of course she wondered more than that, she wondered _how_ he got her there. What would he say when they met again when she turned in her research paper to him? Could she leave John behind just long enough to go back and turn in her paper like Adam Bell suggested? What if she couldn't make her way back to John? She swallowed the lump in her throat. She would have to take him with her to Oxford when she returned. That was the only way she would go.

Margaret heard the bedroom door open. She stood, suddenly stiff, and wandered through the door that connected her bedroom to the sitting room. A blonde woman, perhaps a dozen years older than herself, was waiting for her. She bobbed a curtsey when she saw Margaret.

"Hello, Miss. The Mistress asked me to see to your needs."

"You must be Sally?" Margaret asked. "As you see my arm is incapacitated at the moment." She shrugged her injured shoulder.

"Yes, ma'am. The staff has been instructed to help you as much as you might ask for." She smiled, revealing a few missing teeth. "We are so very pleased the Master has finally chosen a bride! Many of us were worried he would never do so!" She rubbed her hands together before moving to stoke the flames in the fireplace. "Shall we get you into your night clothes? Mrs. Thornton declared you would be quite spent."

"Indeed I am." Margaret sighed and walked to Sally and let the woman begin to help her ready for bed.

John struggled to find sleep. Hours earlier, he'd sat through his mother's evening Bible reading, and then chatted with her for a short while before retiring to his chamber. She'd had a lot on her mind about their wedding, how it should be arranged, who should be invited, when it should be scheduled. She wasn't at all pleased when he declared he would simply procure a special license in the morning and wed Maggie by week's end.

In his mind, a speedy marriage was the only solution, knowing how much effort it was taking him to avoid Maggie's bedroom that evening. He kept reminding himself she was injured. That injury was probably the only thing saving their virginity. She'd taken a bullet intended for him! How many men could say that about their lover? Knowing she was only a few hundred feet away, sleeping in her nightdress, with her hair hanging loose, her beautiful face relaxed in sleep was making him crazy.

Before he'd crawled into his cold, lonely bed he'd taken a peek in her room, just to assure himself she was really there, in his house. _Their_ house. She was home. Her home was now with him. She wouldn't leave him, not once she married him, but until she said the vows, and wore his ring, he couldn't be certain. From the things she'd described from the future, there was much for her to miss from home if she stayed in Milton. Perpetually confident, he wasn't used to feeling such uncertainty.

He flipped onto his back and cupped his head with his folded hands. His senses were suddenly alerted to an odd noise. Perhaps not so odd. It sounded like a door knob rattling. The mill wasn't haunted, so perhaps Maggie was up and about. He held his breath, waiting for any more noise. When he looked in on her, she'd been sound asleep, looking like an angel.

"John?"

Damn, she was in his room. He'd fought the need to be with her all evening, and here she was, coming to him.

"Is it a ghost?" he teased.

He heard her light footsteps on the wooden floor of his room. Moonlight was streaming through the windows of his bed chamber, allowing just enough light to see the dark outline of her form as she wandered toward his bed.

"Very funny." She moaned. "Ouch."

"Are you hurt?" he asked, suddenly concerned. He sat up in bed, catching the sheet at his waist. She couldn't see him either, he was sure, but he'd gone to bed naked that evening.

"No, just blind in the dark apparently." She chuckled. "I only stubbed my toe."

He felt the bed move slightly as she bumped into it, and then the mattress shifted as she climbed on board.

"Are you coming to tempt me, you minx?" he whispered, the nether regions of his body responding to her vicinity.

"I can't sleep," she said. "I napped too late in the day, and now find myself wide awake." She crawled further across the bed and stopped when she was sitting next to him. If she decided to touch him, as he hoped she would, she would be in for a bit of a surprise.

"Can we switch sides?" she asked. "If I'm on your left, my shoulder won't get jostled."

"And what exactly do you have in mind, Miss Bryce?" he asked, his voice thick. "How might your shoulder get jostled?"

"I thought perhaps…" She touched his bare chest with a feather light caress. "Perhaps, if you are willing, that is… you and I might… become more accustomed to one another, so when we do marry, and… well… fully…. _consummate_ our marriage it wouldn't be so embarrassing."

"You expect to be embarrassed when I make love to you?" He wasn't certain if he should be offended by that comment or not.

"Yes, well- no." She sighed. "I've never been touched… _there_… or touched a man… _there_…"

"And?" he prompted. Her admission pleased him beyond words. She was as chaste as him, which took the pressure immediately off his shoulders.

"I want to learn to bring you pleasure, John." She caressed his bare shoulder with her fingertips. "I want our first time together to be perfect and I thought… well... if we could become better used to each other's bodies, it would be easier."

He felt a cold draft when she moved away from him. "In my time, they call it _making out_ or _fooling around_," she continued to explain. Her fingers remained, caressing the back of his shoulder, but her body wasn't as close. "Couples do that while they court." Her voice was lower, seductive really. She didn't need to do much to arouse him. Just the thought of her was enough most nights. "It's expected, really. Most couples have sex long before marriage is even considered, and even sometimes if marriage will never be considered."

"It seems times have changed drastically then, my love. The kisses we have shared so far are truly beyond the bounds of propriety of this time, not to mention my presence in your bed at Crampton the last two evenings."

"Do you wish me to leave?"

He could hear the worry and uncertainty in her voice.

"Absolutely not!" He spoke to harshly. "That is- I want you with me always. Forever, Maggie. I love you more than I thought possible." He kissed her hand. "Please stay."

"I was worried I was being too forward coming to you like this but, John, I don't want to be apart from you either." She leaned on his chest and kissed him softly. "I love you."

He sighed deeply, too happy to contain himself. "I cannot say how well pleased I am that you are not like most of your time. To be your first lover… what an honor you are giving me." He reached out to take her hand and instead landed on her naked thigh. Without much thought, he moved his hand a bit higher and stopped on her hip, pushing aside the fabric of her nightdress.

Her sharp intake of breath surprised and pleased him. She had come to him for loving and by all that was holy, he _would_ love her tonight.

"So, Maggie, my darling love, what shall we call this practice you are suggesting?" His hand caressed its way to her bottom and cupped a naked cheek. His other hand gripped her opposite cheek and slowly pulled her toward him. She felt perfect in his hands. Slowly, with great care for her shoulder, he positioned her on top of his thighs, allowing her to straddle him. "_Making out_? _Fooling around_?" The words seemed so odd coming from his mouth, sounded even stranger with his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He knew what the men of his acquaintance referred to it, but that phrase was far too cheap and ugly for what he and Maggie would share together.

"How about simply _loving_ each other?" She leaned forward, her stomach brushing against his arousal before she brushed her lips with his. He moaned.

He tumbled her to the other side of the bed, just as she'd asked of him, allowing them to lie next to each other, facing each other. He caressed her face, pushing her hair behind her ear. "Loving you is something I've come to do as easily as breathing, _my girl_." He kissed her. "Shall I turn on a lamp? I would be pleased to let you become better accustomed to my body and I would very much enjoy getting to know all your curves and edges."

"Let's play in the dark tonight, my love." She chuckled. "Curves and edges, eh? Are you calling me pudgy?" She leaned forward and caught his lips with hers.

"Pudgy? Hardly? You are the most beautiful woman I have ever known." His hands tangled in her silky hair and pulled her head toward him for another quick kiss. "Shall we call this playing in the dark?" he whispered. His lips found the soft spot under her earlobe and kissed her, teasing her ear with his nose. "Hmm, I like that. Loving in the dark?" He felt completely free to do whatever felt right. That freedom was heady, made him light headed… and rock hard.

Their kisses became harder, more passionate, she was giving him exactly what he wanted, what he needed. It didn't matter to him the date on the calendar, that they weren't yet married, that his mother was down the hallway. He loved Maggie, she loved him, and they shared a passion for each other, something he'd never dreamt of finding from anyone in his whole life. He was in heaven.

Her arm was trapped tightly in the sling, but being a curious man, his hands couldn't stay still. She'd already allowed is hands on her naked bum, surely she'd allow more exploration. After all, she'd come to him tonight.

He slid up her nightdress but paused when he felt her stiffen. "Maggie?"

"Please?" she whispered, and then snuggled closer, wedging her slender leg between his.

He answered with a grunt of approval against her lips as his hand found her breast. Just like the rest of her, it was perfect, fit in his hand as if it was meant for him alone. His thumb teased her hardened nipple surprised at the delightful little moans escaping Maggie's mouth into his own. He pushed her back onto the pillow and hovered over her, his lips returning to their exploration of her neck.

He trailed hot, wet kisses lower, passed her collarbone. "What are you wearing?"

"Your nightshirt," she whispered. "I forgot mine at Crampton." She chuckled. "I hope you don't mind."

He pushed his arousal against her hip. "I don't mind at all. I just want it off."

"Help me, then?" She sat up.

Together they were able to remove the garment while keeping the sling in place.

"Do you always sleep in the nude?" she whispered. Her free arm paused on his hip.

"No, but I couldn't find my night shirt." He laughed before covering her breast with needy kisses.

She laid on her back and welcomed his weight as he pressed his hips against her. Did she seek the same release he needed? Could he claim her tonight? Her hand grazed his bum and then slid lower to the side of his hip. John shifted his weight, allowing her access to the part of him that was in most need of her gentle caress.

"Can I touch you… _there_?" she asked.

He answered by taking her small hand in his and guiding it to his arousal. He almost lost it when she gently rubbed his hardened shaft.

"Show me what to do," she said. "Show me how to bring you pleasure."

He swallowed. How could he ask for anything better? "Whatever you do will bring me pleasure, Maggie."

Her hand clasped his manhood, slid gently up and down his shaft, bringing him such exquisite pleasure he moaned. She stopped. "John?"

"Don't stop, my darling girl. Please don't stop."

She continued fondling, rubbing him, gripping him hander, running her firm fingers from the thick base of him to the wide tip. Prickly streams of pleasure spread across his body, tightening him, causing an enormous build-up of tension. He covered her hand with his to still her movements. He couldn't explode in her hand, not the first time she touched him.

"I want to make love to you, Maggie. I am aching with need." He kissed the side of her neck, something he realized she enjoyed. "Tell me what you want. Do we wait, or will tonight be our first time together?"

"I want you inside me. My body is… throbbing down _there_," she said. "But, tonight with my arm…"

"We can wait," he sighed in frustration, certainly not with her, but with the situation, and pulled abruptly away.

"John." She pulled him back toward her. "May I still play?" she asked. "I don't want to stop touching you… kissing you."

"Well… If you insist." He easily yielded to her request with a chuckle.

She pushed him onto his back and straddled him again. He sighed deeply and simply enjoyed the sensations she was bringing forth from his body. He rested his hands on her slender hips, loving the feel of her soft skin under his hands. He moved to her back and then her shoulders as her mouth kissed his chest, and then trailed lower and lower and lower … He cried out her name as he experienced a forceful release. Waves of pleasure rolled through his body, drawing such intense emotion from him he felt tears come to his eyes.

"Good morning Mr. Thornton." A singsong voice broke through the silence of the early dawn morning.

Margaret opened her eyes, and stared right into John's bright blue gaze. He held a finger over her lips. She heard someone shuffling around the room on the other side of the bed curtains that were drawn closed for their privacy.

"Good morning, Jane." He stared at Maggie, raising his eyebrows. He mouthed, "good morning," to her also, and leaned forward to kiss her. "Have you tended Miss Bryce's fire yet?" he asked the maid.

"No sir!" she was fast to answer. "Mrs. Thornton was firm in her order to allow Miss Bryce to sleep without interruption."

"Very good, Jane. I shall see to it before I leave for the mill."

"Thank you, sir. Breakfast will be ready in thirty minutes." Her shoes clicked on the wood floor and soon the door was closed behind her.

"Good morning, John." She was embarrassed, she realized. She'd been so aggressive the night before. She'd done things with her hands and her mouth she'd never thought she would do. He hadn't minded, of course, but now, in the light of day. "I'm glad you pulled the drapes on the bed."

"I do every night. I don't much like the maids walking in on me in my nightshirt." He caressed the side of her face. "I love you, Margaret." He leaned forward and kissed her.

"Was I… was I too… _forward_ with you last night?"

"Lord, no!" he said with a bark of laughter. "My darling, the passion we have for each other is such a miracle. I cannot fathom the number of married couples I know who have no love or even attraction to one another. So many in my station marry for money and alliances. You and I have love, and it is something I am thankful for every day."

They kissed each other, kisses of discovery and a gentle love that was growing deeper every day.

Soon, he pulled his mouth away, and drew her against his side. He rested his cheek on her head which was now on his shoulder.

"I had wanted to tell you about my father last night," he continued. "I think it's time you knew. But when I checked on you, you were sound asleep. And then, when you came to visit my bed, talking was the last thing on my mind." He chuckled.

She blushed. "I've never done such a thing," she admitted, burying her head further in his shoulder.

"I hope you do it often." He kissed her. "Once you are healed, I will gladly return the attentions." He wiggled his eyebrows and she giggled.

"Your morning voice is so sexy, Mr. Thornton." She rested her head back on his shoulder, her hand on his chest. "Deeper than usual, thick like honey. I believe I could listen to you speak all day."

"So, let's get you dressed and I will tell you of my father as I ready for my day at the mill."

"Do we have to get up?" she asked.

"_You_ don't, but _I_ have to be at the mill. Ah, hear that? That is the sound of the steam engines being started for the day." Her heart stopped as he smiled. He leaned forward and kissed her softly and then sat up, the sheet falling from his body. "I have to go earn some money as I will soon have a larger family to support."

"About that…"

He pushed the privacy drape aside and then stood, seemingly unfazed by his nudity. Margaret's jaw dropped open. He was gorgeous, every inch of his flesh muscular, not an inch of flab or fat. His chest was covered with curly black hair, tapering to a _vee_ below his waist. She blushed, realizing she was staring at his unit.

"Like what you see?"

She chuckled and then nodded. "You're so beautiful, John."

He blushed and grinned broadly. "I have not a dot on your beauty, my love." He bent down and kissed her again. "Think of how handsome our children will be." He winked at her and walked to a door in the corner of the room and closed it behind him.

Ah ha, so that's where the chamber pot was!

Children… yes, that's what she wanted to talk with him about.

He rejoined her in the bedroom, still naked. She rooted around for his nightshirt as he went to his dressing table and splashed water on his face. She found the shirt and haphazardly pulled it over her head. She wasn't at all self-conscious being naked with him as she'd believed she would be. In fact, she was far more comfortable with John than she'd ever been with anyone.

She walked behind him and snaked her arm around his waist. "You are far too tall." She laughed.

He turned around and pulled her against him. "You are far too short." He kissed the tip of her nose. "Go sit on the settee and talk with me as I get ready for the day."

She did as he asked, and tucked her legs underneath her. "Can we speak of children, John?"

He frowned at the mirror and then turned to face her. "Of course we can. Did I speak too soon? Are you not ready to think about having my children?"

"No!" She shook her head. "That's not it at all. I wish… that is… I _hope_… plan… to have several children. You know I was an only child and I think it would be better to have siblings."

"Yes." He caught her eye in his mirror as he wet his face and began to shave. "It was better to have a sister as annoying as Fanny than not have anyone." He smiled briefly and then focused again on his face.

"What I meant to ask," she started again, "that is, John, I would like to keep working at Mrs. Wilkinson's school, but I'm not certain how I will do that when we have children."

He rinsed his razor off in the water and met her eyes in the mirror again. "Do women work after they have children in your time?"

"They do," she answered. "Not all, but some do." She shrugged. It seemed that most women worked outside the home. Many had to for financial reasons.

"Well, perhaps you could continue at the school until we are blessed with a baby?" He raised his brows. He continued to shave his face clean. "Maybe by then you will have created a school of your own here at the mill, for my mill families."

"How did you think of that?" she wondered. What a fabulous idea!

He smiled at her in the mirror. "It came to me late one evening when I was having trouble getting you out of my mind. It was the night of the concert you attended with Mrs. Wilkinson. It occurred to me what an excellent idea she had. After I saw what you were teaching, and to who, I was convinced it would be a fine idea for me, too."

"You would encourage me?" she asked, hoping she knew the answer to that.

"I will encourage you in anything you wish to do, Maggie, my love."

"How have I gotten so lucky to have you?" She gave him a wide smile, her mind already flying to the possibilities of what she could create for the children of his mill workers. People like Bessie and Mary who never had an opportunity to do anything but work in a mill, get their lungs plugged and die early.

"I might ask the same." He finished shaving and then took a towel and wiped the remaining shaving cream off. Smiling at her again when he saw her staring at him, he came up to her and kissed her upturned lips.

She followed his movements as he stalked, long-legged to his closet. She was so impressed by his gait, the graceful ease with which he moved. He pulled out a pair of dark trousers and crisp white shirt. After pulling on undergarments the likes of which she had never seen, he stepped into his pants and the pulled on his shirt.

"My father was a difficult man, Maggie." He came and sat next to her on the settee to slip on his socks. "One day he might be laughing and happy. The next he was in deep despair. Mother and I never knew which man we would have. He drank, he gambled. It was ultimately both that killed him."

She remained silent, waiting for him to say something else. He took her hand and kissed it.

"When I was fourteen, he had reached the top of his banking occupation. He was wealthy beyond anything he ever imagined. I was proud of him and his accomplishments. So was my mother. Then he was given an opportunity, and he allowed greed to overcome his sensibilities. He made a decision to participate in an investment scheme, a wild speculation. Had it been successful, he would have become an even wealthier man." He kissed her hand again and looked away, obviously struggling to continue the discussion. "The scheme failed. My father was swindled out of all his money. Everything we had had to be sold to pay the debts and even then we were short. He killed himself, Margaret."

She scooted over on the settee until she could wrap her arm around him. He pulled her onto his lap, accepting the comfort she offered him. "I'm so sorry, John. How horrible it must have been for you."

"Perhaps now you can understand why my mother is so protective of me? Why she is so dour. She has not always had an easy life."

"Yes." She nodded, suddenly understanding the woman who would be her mother-in-law.

"Because of him, I am very frugal, and careful with my money. Perhaps I appear too restrained in expenditures?" He raised his brows in question. "My mother thought you might like some more fripperies in your room and our sitting room." He waved that direction. "I don't wish to ever waste money, Margaret, but I will be able to afford what you might require. If all continues as it has, you should never have a need to work at a school or elsewhere unless you choose to do so. I told Mr. Bell and Mr. Hale the same thing when I offered to have settlements drawn up."

"Settlements?" she asked.

"Ah, yes." He finished buttoning his shirt, shifting her off his lap and then stood up to grab his cravat. "I will visit my attorney today and have papers created listing you as my heir, and creating orders on how to deal with the estate should anything happen to me."

"Is that necessary?" It sounded like a will. Surely they didn't need that yet?

"I want you to be provided for, should I not be here to see to it."

"Thank you, but I still don't think it is necessary." she said. "Might I discuss something else with you?"

"Yes, of course.'

"Well, it's about that other bedroom, the one your mother put me in."

"You don't like it?" he asked, concern etched on his face.

"Oh no, it's quite lovely, but, John, well, I was hoping that you and I would share a bed. All night, every night." She sighed. Was she being to forward again? "In my day husbands and wives sleep together."

"I see." He smiled broadly. "Well, I will be pleased to arrange that. As I said last night, I never want to be separated from you."

"Oh good. I'm glad you want that, too." What a relief. She imagined some nights their time together in bed might well be the only time they had alone.

He pulled his frock coat from the closet and shrugged into it.

"There's one more thing I need to ask you. You know I have finished my research, my paper for school. I would like to go back to my time and deliver it to J. Whitman Bell."

"Adam Bell said you would," he answered with a nod.

She wondered when they'd discussed her.

"But I will not go unless you can go along with me. If you want to, that is. I'm afraid that if I leave here I might not be able to come back." She saw his face turn angry, and she corrected his thoughts right away. "I will always _want_ to come back to you, but it's such an unusual circumstance, what if I cannot make it back? That's why I want you with me. I don't ever want to lose you!" By the time she finished speaking, she was standing in his arms.

"Alright. If it's important to you, we'll go together." He pulled her tightly against him and kissed her head. "I had planned to obtain a special marriage license today after visiting the attorney, hoping you would agree to marry me as soon as Donaldson said you were well enough to do so."

"That soon?" She pulled back to see his face. "Yes, that would be fine." She smiled up at him, went up on tiptoes and kissed his chin.

"How does this sound for a plan? After we wed, we will go to your Oxford. We can call it our wedding trip." He bent and caught her lips with his. "Will you need to be there long?"

She shook her head. "No. I'll need a day to prepare the paper properly, and then a day to present it to my committee. It would be nice to show you my world, but I should think four or five days would be sufficient."

"That's what we shall plan for then. A five day wedding trip to Oxford." He pulled her close, kissed her quickly and stepped away. "We've certainly covered a lot of issues already this morning. My father, our future children, our sleeping arrangements and a wedding trip. Won't it be wonderful if we can be this productive every morning?" He laughed.

"It _was_ rather productive." She laughed. "Go to work, John. Will you be home for luncheon?"

"Yes." He adjusted his cravat in the mirror. "Knowing you are here will be incentive enough to take a short break at half-day." He kissed her again. "Take care to rest today. If you need me, don't hesitate to come or send someone for me."

"I will be fine!" she assured him. "Go on with you." She shooed him away with her hand.

He smiled once more and then walked through the door into the hallway, clicking it closed behind him. She heard his whistling echoing in the hallway, making her smile. She brought him as much happiness as he brought her.

She walked through the adjoined sitting room and then into the blue bedroom. In her small valise she found her acetaminophen, took three pills with a sip of water, and then crawled into the large bed, plumping the pillows behind her back and covering herself with a puffy coverlet.

She had nothing to do this morning but heal. The sooner she healed, the sooner she would be married. The sooner she was married, the sooner she would turn in her paper, come back to Milton and start her life as Mrs. John Thornton. On that thought she closed her eyes and allowed sleep to claim her.


	18. Chapter 18

"_For jealousy__arouses a husband's fury,__  
__and he will show no mercy when he takes revenge."_

_Proverbs 6:34_

"And so, Mr. Hale, that's why Margaret and I have decided on Friday morning for the wedding." John stretched out his legs, awkwardly balancing Mrs. Hale's fragile teacup on his thigh.

He'd come to Crampton to fetch Margaret's trunk and belongings and have his evening literature lesson. Margaret decided not to join him, instead remained at the mill house recuperating. Dr. Donaldson had visited that afternoon and declared she was healing nicely, that Friday would be a fine day for them to wed.

"Maria and I will certainly be pleased to attend," Mr. Hale told him. "As we became better acquainted, Maria and I had begun to think of her as a daughter, I believe. We miss her vivacity already after only a day!" His happiness for them was obvious on his face. "I daresay you will be both be quite content with one another, and I wish you nothing but a lifetime of happiness!" He raised his teacup in salute.

John knew Margaret would be missed in this house. But it was also true she now belonged with him in the mill house. Especially after the previous night's loving. John would encourage her continued and frequent visits to Crampton, and take pleasure in accompanying her. The Hales were fine people, a couple that he and Margaret could perhaps seek to emulate as they created their life together. 

"Has Mrs. Hale recovered her strength then?" John and Margaret continued to be concerned for Mrs. Hale. The incident days earlier still lingered in both of their minds. They'd even talked about her at luncheon that afternoon.

"Each day she has appeared to regain her strength." Mr. Hale refilled his teacup. "Dr. Donaldson visited today, soon after he was up to the mill to see Margaret. He noted improvement, but cautioned she could relapse." Mr. Hale's voice dropped so low that John had to strain to hear his voice.

He wanted to ask what Mrs. Hale suffered from, but knew it wasn't proper to inquire, Margaret didn't even know. He was still tempted to ask. Perhaps there was a specialist in London or Paris or America, even, they could consult. Margaret had changed his whole perception on propriety. A year ago he would never have considered prying into another man's personal life, or discussing something such as a wife's health. He was now questioning every rule he'd been taught since he was young.

A brief knock sounded at the door before Dixon walked inside and quickly closed the door behind her. "Mr. Hale?" Dixon came closer, stopping next to Mr. Hale. To John, she looked like a nervous bird. "There is a gentleman here to see Miss Bryce."

"A gentleman?" Mr. Hale asked. The older man shot John a worried expression. "Did he give a name?"

"Yes, sir." Dixon nodded rapidly, the cap on her head shifting with her jerky movements. "Mr. Morris is the name he gave."

Mr. Hale frowned. "I'm not familiar with that name. John, is he an acquaintance of yours, perhaps?"

"I believe I may know him, yes." John nodded. Morris was a common enough name, of course, but having recently spoken of the man with Adam Bell, John had a fairly good idea who it might be. He frowned. Bell must have been right when he suggested Morris was interested in Margaret. Why had she never said anything to John about him? He frowned, his mood suddenly going foul. "If it's the man I know, he's a banker from London." Damn it!

"What shall I say, Mr. Hale?" Dixon looked to her employer, awaiting a reply.

Mr. Hale looked at John for the answer. John shrugged. He would like to know the intent of the man's visit. "He hasn't been here before?" John asked Dixon.

"No, sir, Mr. Thornton." Dixon shook her head, wide eyed. "I've not seen the man before."

"Show him in, Dixon," Mr. Thornton said. He flushed, remembering this was not his home. "That is, if you please, Mr. Hale?"

"Of course, of course! Show him in, Dixon." Mr. Hale waved toward the maid to do his bidding.

The men stared at each other, John resting his elbows on his knees, as they waited for the man to join them. Dixon properly announced Mr. Morris at the study door, and both Mr. Hale and John stood to greet him.

"Mr. Thornton!" Mr. Morris exclaimed as he breezed into the room. He extended his hand to John. "I had no idea you would be here. It's a pleasure to see you, sir."

"Mr. Morris." John tipped his head and returned the man's handshake. "This is my friend, Mr. Richard Hale." He repeated the introduction of Mr. Hale to Morris.

"Mr. Hale." Mr. Morris shook the older man's hand.

John sat again, and the other two men followed suit. Mr. Hale eyed John warily. As it was Hale's house, John decided he would allow him to lead the conversation.

"You've come to see Miss Bryce?" Mr. Hale asked. He was smiling, as he most often did.

"Yes." Morris nodded. "I understood this is where she is living." He glanced nervously around the small study and then his gaze landed on Mr. Hale. "You see, I went to Mrs. Wilkinson's school to visit Miss Bryce today and was told she was recovering from an injury at home." His eyes darted back and forth again. "Naturally, I wanted to see if she was well."

"Naturally?" John raised a brow. That statement seemed rather forward from a man who'd never visited this Crampton home.

"Why, yes." Morris twisted his hands in his lap. "The last time I was in Milton, well, she and I had an interesting discussion which I was hoping to continue."

"Is that right?" John's hackles were rising along with his voice. "And what topic did you discuss, Mr. Morris?"

Morris glanced at Mr. Hale, perhaps looking for help or rescue. John stared at the man, watching him shift nervously in his seat.

"Her studies," Morris said. He cleared his throat. "I thought it was rather interesting a woman would be sent to do such research, and I thought to offer her some insights from a man's perspective." He shrugged. "After all, I would imagine men would be reading the paper, not women."

"Where did you have a chance to speak with her?" Mr. Hale asked. "You've not called here before."

Morris swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing. "It was while attending a concert several weeks ago."

"Nearly a month," John interjected. So much had happened in a month!

"Yes, that sounds about right." Morris nodded, studying his hands folded on his lap. "She was in attendance with Mrs. Wilkinson, I believe. We talked briefly and I asked if I could call the next time I was in Milton." He shrugged. "I wasn't given her direction, but knew where the school was and thought she would be pleased to see me."

"Much has changed since that time, Mr. Morris," Mr. Hale said. He met John's eyes and stood from his chair. "Perhaps I should leave the two of you to talk?"

"Nonsense, Mr. Hale," John told him. "Please do be seated." He waved back to Mr. Hale. "Mr. Morris," John turned his gaze to the visitor. "Miss Bryce is at Marlborough Mills." Would he need to spell it out for the man?

"Ah, she's visiting with your sister, then?" Morris's forehead scrunched up in consternation.

"Possibly," John said. He glanced at Mr. Hale who shrugged at him. "What I mean to say, Mr. Morris, is Miss Bryce will be living at the mill house. Permanently. With me."

Tense silence ensued. Morris's mouth hung open for a moment before he snapped his jaw shut.

"Oh. I see." Morris flushed.

"We are engaged to be married Friday," John added for further clarity.

"Oh. I see," Morris repeated, flushing an even deeper shade of crimson. "I had no idea. She gave the impression… Well, no matter now."

"Do continue," John said.

"I didn't realize the two of you had an understanding. I found her to be rather… welcoming… of my attentions toward her."

Jealousy, the ugly green eyed monster tugged at his gut. Welcoming? Just what the hell did that mean?

"We hadn't reached an understanding at that time," John said, clenching his jaw. In fact, he added to himself silently, remembering how he was still making continual foolish mistakes in her presence.

"You escorted Miss Lattimer to that concert, did you not?" Morris twisted the knife. First he suggested Margaret had chosen Morris over him the night of the concert, now he was suggesting John's attentions were otherwise engaged that evening.

John looked sheepishly at Mr. Hale, feeling like a schoolboy with his hand caught in the cookie jar. "Yes, that is true." Miss Lattimer had been the last thing on his mind that evening, but surely that wasn't how it probably appeared to anyone, including Margaret.

"I should wonder at the fast turn of your attentions, Thornton." Anger etched every inch of Morris's body. He rose.

"I would say that is hardly any of your concern, Mr. Morris." John stared at the younger man, preparing himself for even more verbal sparring.

"It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Hale." Morris tipped his head toward Mr. Hale. "I shall show myself out. Thornton." He replaced his hat on his head and curtly tipped it toward John and left them. The sound of the front door slamming reverberated off the walls of the study where Mr. Hale and John remained.

"Well that was certainly awkward," John stated.

"Don't let him bother you, John. Margaret is a lovely woman, I know she has attracted attention, most likely due to being new to Milton. But, in my experience, she has never been improper."

John wished he could say the same. He and she had shared a bed three times already! Good lord what if she had allowed Mr. Morris… No, of course she hadn't done _that_. But what about a kiss, or an embrace? She wasn't accustomed to the restrictions of this time, obviously, or she'd never appeared in his bedroom the night before. Had she acted in such an inappropriate way with Morris that he'd formed expectations about her? He felt sick.

"I should go." John stood. He couldn't remain here a minute longer. He needed to get to the bottom of this.

"John, tread lightly. It's very likely Mr. Morris simply imagined her interest." Mr. Hale stood and clapped John on the shoulder. "I've watched the two of you together. It's clear her interest in _you _was developing long before you asked for her hand."

"Thank you for that." John forced a smile. "I shall come again Wednesday."

"You have a wedding to plan for." Mr. Hale patted his shoulder again. "Surely that will be more important?"

John smirked and shook his head. "My mother said all I must do is make certain to arrive at the church on time that she and Margaret would have all well in hand."

"Women tend to enjoy such occasions. As a vicar I witnessed many a fancy wedding. You should be pleased Margaret opted for something simple."

"Would you stand with me as my witness at the wedding, Mr. Hale?" John asked, hoping he would agree. He'd been waiting all evening for the perfect opportunity to request this of his friend. "I know Margaret would be pleased. She's asked Fanny to stand with her."

"Yes, of course. I would be very honored, John. I thank you." The older man beamed. Mr. Hale reached out and shook John's hand.

"If you, or Mrs. Hale, need anything before I see you Wednesday evening do not hesitate to contact me."

John left the small house at Crampton, too wound up to return home right away. He walked through the quiet, deserted streets. The vision and idea of his Maggie in the arms of Mr. Morris turned his stomach, and made his blood boil. How dare that man presume she would be available to see him that evening! Had she really extended an offer for him to call? Wouldn't she have told Morris where she lived if she really wanted to see him again?

He tried to remember seeing Morris the night of the concert. He couldn't recall Maggie being anywhere near him. Even with Miss Lattimer on his arm he'd known exactly where Maggie was the whole evening. It was as if she had cast some magical spell on him, linking him to her every movement.

He stopped walking, remembering that Morris _had_ been talking with Maggie as he was leaving with Fanny. Maggie had seemed interested in what he'd been saying, but John didn't think she was the one doing the speaking but rather she'd appeared to be listening. Maybe she _had_ agreed to see Morris again, when he returned to Milton. After all, that night Margaret thought he was leading her on, playing with her affections.

He frowned at the recollection of his behavior that day and soon continued his journey home. That had been a hell of a bad day, now that he thought about it. After church services, he'd asked Maggie to spend the afternoon with him, and had gotten frustrated when she wouldn't change the plans she already had with Mrs. Hale. He went on to escort Miss. Lattimer to the concert after telling Maggie he had mill business to see to. That was badly done, but he didn't understand, not really until recently, how much Maggie cared about the Hales and how they had quickly come to rely upon her. It was only natural that she would have remained committed to her original plans with Mrs. Hale. She wasn't doing it to avoid him, as he'd thought, she was being a caring, considerate friend.

She'd told him the following Tuesday, when he visited her at the school, that she'd been jealous of Miss Lattimer. Had she merely told Morris to call on her as a ploy for revenge? He doubted it. That wasn't the sort of person she was.

But now he found himself jealous, wondering what was said and done after he and Fanny departed from the concert. Had Morris touched her? Surely not in public. Had he kissed her hand? Probably. John would have. Hell, he'd now done a lot more than kiss the woman's _hand_. Had she been attracted to Morris? He stopped under a gas light and sighed.

Had John been Maggie's second choice? If Morris had stayed in Milton longer would she have become attached to him instead? Had she already told him about her _travels?_ Perhaps that was why he was so vague about what they spoke of at the concert.

He resumed his walk, picking up his pace as he went. Maggie was at his home, and only she could clear up their misunderstanding. The carriage had left earlier, carrying her trunk and personal belongings to the mill. Surely she was still awake, looking through her things, sorting them in their room.

_Their _room.

She'd asked him this morning if she could always sleep with him. She didn't want her own room, she wanted to be with him. Surely that meant she cared only for him, had no interest in Morris. She said she loved him and John had no reason to believe she was lying. But yet, there was doubt. But why would she marry him, if she had feelings for another? Lord, he was being irrational. He knew it, too, but wasn't able to push pass the anxiety and fear.

Finally he made it to the steps of the house at Marlborough Mills. He pulled out his pocket watch, noting that he would have missed his mother's nightly reading. It was well after ten. He pushed open the door and walked inside, worried about the conversation he would soon have with Margaret, worried how she would react to his jealousy, anxious most of all that his worries might have a basis in truth.

Margaret didn't know what to do. She'd sat through Mrs. Thornton's reading that evening, hoping John would arrive home to share it with her. At dinner he'd offered to remain home that evening, to forego his lessons with Mr. Hale, but Maggie thought it would be good for him to see how things were at Crampton. He would let her know how Mrs. Hale was progressing and collect her things.

When the carriage arrived from Crampton at the mill house with her trunks, but missing John, she was concerned. The driver explained that John would be detained a bit longer, but wanted Maggie to have her things and have an opportunity to get them situated.

Now, she'd just released Sally for the evening after the maid helped her get into one of her own nightdresses. She'd liked wearing John's night shirt the night before. It smelled like him, it felt like she was cocooned by him. Of course, she'd not worn it most of the night, but while it was on, she felt… safe.

She looked around the blue room, debating if she should stay there or meander to John's master bedroom. Would he expect her to be there, waiting for him, or would it be awkward and uncomfortable. What if Hannah were to walk up with him? She passed by this suite to get to her own.

Margaret sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off her slippers. Maybe if she left the door adjoining this room with the sitting room open, and the gas light burning, John would take a peek in when he arrived home? That's what she decided to do, before she climbed into the bed. She hoped John had enjoyed his evening with the Hales, but she certainly had missed him.

She curled up like a sated kitten under the covers and closed her eyes. She felt as if she were forgetting something, as if she had something to do, but couldn't quite put her finger on it. Maybe it was anxiety? She felt as if something just wasn't quite right.

She'd had a friend in high school whose mother was a witch. Like a _cast a spell on a person _kind of a witch. Margaret never felt at ease around that woman and she had that odd prickly sensation now as well. She had no idea what might be causing such feelings of trepidation.

Her evening had been very pleasant with Hannah Thornton. The woman had been quite welcoming, really. They'd discussed the management of the house, and Hannah had readily agreed to continue at the helm. Margaret shared what she and John discussed earlier that morning, about Margaret continuing at Mrs. Wilkinson's school. She hadn't added the part about starting a mill school or quitting if a baby… when a baby… should arrive.

Margaret rolled onto her back and rested a hand on her flat stomach. _A baby_. Concentrating so much on her studies and just, well, _existing_, she hadn't considered a different role… as a wife, a mother. She closed her eyes with a sigh. Her mother had failed so miserably at both jobs, Margaret prayed she wouldn't allow history to repeat itself. Hannah was a much better role model, much more protective of her children than Shirley Bryce had been. John would be a good father. She wasn't certain how she would know, she just did.

Still the feel of unease persisted. A door closed in the distance. Perhaps Fanny had finally arrived home. Since Watson received permission to marry her, Fanny had hardly been at home. Hannah told Margaret that Fanny was already planning what to change in Watson's mill house. She had already been to the drapers that morning to select swatches of fabrics for her wedding gown and trousseau. Fanny was so different from Margaret, but somehow they got along well enough. Margaret would be happy to wear jeans and a t-shirt to marry John. Love was all she needed. _Thanks, John Lennon_.

Finally, the door to John's room opened. Nervous excitement pulsated through her. He was home! How odd it was to be waiting for someone to come home to her. She stayed quite still in her bed, almost holding her breath to hear all his movements. Would he come to her?

Margaret heard John's heavy footsteps coming from the sitting room, pausing just outside her bedroom door. She held her breath and turned toward the door, waiting for him to make his choice. The door pushed open with a creaking sound. She smiled, pleased he'd decided to join her.

"You're home," she whispered with a broad smile. He looked tired, she thought, angry too. What would that be about?

"Where else would I be?" He walked to the side of her bed and glared down at her.

She worked herself into a sitting position, worry and dread settling in her stomach. Something was dreadfully wrong.

"What's the matter, John? Why are you so angry? Did something happen at the Hale's" He'd been in a fine mood at dinner.

"The Hale's had a visitor this evening," was his terse reply.

"One of their guests made you angry?" She was confused. "Why didn't you just leave, then?"

"He came looking for you, Margaret," he said. His jaw clenched. She hadn't seen him this worked up since the afternoon at the mill when he sacked the careless smoker.

"Who came looking for me?" she demanded. "John you are talking in circles."

"Mr. Charlie Morris." He crossed his arms against his chest. "I assume you know the man? You must if he felt comfortable calling on you out of the blue."

She swallowed. Mr. Morris was the banker. "I know who he is, yes." She nodded. "But, I never asked him to call on me." She frowned, racking her brain to think how Morris thought she wanted to become better acquainted with him.

He towered over her. "Did you have a good _conversation _with him at the concert?"

She struggled to remember the last time she'd seen Morris. "What precisely did he tell you, John? I hardly know the man."

The vein in his temple twitched, surely a bad sign. "He said that you spoke with him about your research. He thought you would welcome a visit from him the next time he returned to Milton."

"I did tell him I was here studying class structure, but John I never asked him to call on me." She frowned. Was Morris a freaky stalker? "How did he even know where to find my house?"

"You must have mentioned Mrs. Wilkinson's school?" he suggested. "That's where he began his search."

She frowned again, wrinkling her brow, trying to remember. "I did not!" She shook her head. "I gave the man no personal information about me at all. John, why are you so angry with me? I didn't do anything wrong!"

"You must have done _something_ to attract his attention- to make him think you would welcome him in your life."

"Well, you are wrong," she said with fire shooting from her eyes. She sat up straighter. "I did nothing of the sort. I was polite and nothing more. If he thought anything else, he was imagining it!"

"Did he kiss you?" His voice was dangerously low, accusatory. 

"No!" she yelled.

"Not even your hand?"

"John, I did not let him touch me. Just what the hell do you take me for? Because I kissed _you_, because I want to be with _you_ in an intimate way you think I am like that with other men? Damn it! I love you, John. I already told you I've never done anything with another man."

"You've kissed other men!" he stormed.

"Yes! But not while I've been in Milton. Kissing is not weird or improper in my day, and I told you that it never went further than that!" She sighed, wanting to cry. "You don't trust me and that just sucks. A lot. I've done nothing improper except with you, and that's because I plan to spend the rest of my life sharing all of myself with you." She felt herself tearing up. "Please leave," she whispered.

She turned away from him and snuggled down into the bed. She sniffed away the tears. He could just go to hell for all she cared right that moment. She waited to hear him leave before she would give into the tears.

But he wasn't leaving. Instead, the bed shifted as he sat on it. She swallowed, not interested in continuing the conversation.

"I love you, Margaret," John said quietly, and edge still present in his voice. "I refuse to go to bed before we finish this conversation. Indeed, I refuse to ever let my head rest on the pillow with unsettled emotions between us."

"You don't trust me. How can we overcome that?" she whispered. She faced him again, wary of what he might say.

She watched him smooth a rough hand over his face. "I'm jealous, Maggie." His voice was much gentler now. "Other than the mill, I've never had anything I care about enough to worry about losing. Now I have you." He caressed the side of her face. "Jealous and afraid." He leaned forward and kissed her softly on the lips. "I do trust you, my love. You've never given me reason not to."

"And I never will! John, I never imagined I would meet and marry someone as wonderful as you. I would do nothing to jeopardize your love!" The knot in her stomach eased away. "I suppose I better tell you about Mr. Slickson."

"Slickson?" The sharp voice was back. "What about him?"

She closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them again, she wasn't surprised to see his jaw clenched tight.

"At the master's dinner, before you and I spoke on the balcony, he asked if he could call on me." She'd maintained eye contact with him, even though his eyes were shooting daggers at her.

"And what was your answer?"

"You have to ask?" she yelled back at him. She snorted and turned away. "You are not only jealous and afraid but now you are just being stupid."

"We had no commitment at that time," he shouted. "How am I to know?"

She turned back to look at him, shaking her head. "John I… love… you." She drew out the sentence as if talking with a young child. "It didn't matter that there was nothing formal between us. I knew what I was feeling for you! For God's sake, it wasn't as if I fell in love with you the minute you asked to court me! It had been coming on for weeks already by that point, just getting more intense the more time we were able to be together."

"It has progressed much the same with me," he said, a rueful grin on his face. "I decided not to fight it anymore."

"I was immediately drawn to you the first time we met," she said. "You have a certain charisma, magnetism that attracted me to you right off the bat. When I left the concert that night I couldn't wait to see you again." She smiled lovingly at him.

"But then you witnessed my anger."

She nodded. "It scared me. Not that you would ever be like that toward me, but I had never imagined you would behave in such a way."

He nodded, studying his clasped hands hanging between his knees. "It was badly done. He could have burned down the whole mill. Killed hundreds!"

"Yes, I know that _now_. That day I did not. But even after that horrid spectacle, I still couldn't remove you from my every waking thought." She smiled seductively. "And a few nighttime dreams, as well."

"So I have nothing to worry about then?" He caressed her face again. "You've liked me for that long?"

"_Like_ is a pretty tame word for what I truly feel for you, John." She chuckled. He was a fool!

"Well then, woman, why are you not sleeping in my bed?" He stood up and roughly pulled away the covers from her body before scooping her up in his arms and carrying her toward their bedroom. "I thought we agreed only this morning we would not have separate rooms?"

"You weren't home yet tonight." She rested her head against his shoulder. His arms brought such comfort and calm. "I didn't know if your mother would come in the room." She shrugged.

"She never comes in my room," he said. "And I never go in hers. It's sort of an unwritten rule, I suppose. It's our private space. Of course, _you_ are now quite welcome to share it with me. It will be _our_ private space." He set her on the bed and kissed her heavily on the lips.

"I was thinking yesterday that evenings in bed might be the only private time we have together some days." She pulled back the covers and crawled underneath, waiting for him to join her.

"I'm sorry to say it, but you might be right." He removed his jacket and then his cravat, flicking open the buttons of his shirt. He pulled it off and replaced it with the nightshirt laying across the foot of the bed.

"You are so very handsome, John." She sighed, pleased to know she would be able to look at him the rest of her life. "I could look at you all day and not grow tired of it." She laughed.

"Maybe during our wedding trip to Oxford I will allow you to do just that." He grinned. "Of course, you must give me the same privilege."

"With pleasure." She snuggled into the pillows.

He stepped out of his pants, hung them over a chair and then climbed into bed behind her. He pulled her against his chest and kissed her temple. "I'm sorry I yelled at you. I love you so much, Maggie. I couldn't think about losing you to another."

"I am all yours, John. For always."

Morris was chasing her not the other way around…


	19. Chapter 19

"_Eve was not taken out of Adam's head to top him, neither out of his feet to be trampled on by him, but out of his side to be equal with him, under his arm to be protected by him, and near his heart to be loved by him."__  
_

Matthew Henry, _Complete Commentary_

Friday morning dawned sunny and warm. There was a definite hint of spring in the air. Finally. Milton was a rather dreary, dismal looking town, and when the sun refused to shine for weeks on end, one could easily become despondent. Oxford wasn't so different with the lack of sun, but at least it wasn't smoky and dirty. However, Milton would now be home and Margaret would make the best of it. The privilege of living with, and loving John would certainly overcome any minor drawbacks, even lack of flush toilets and hot showers.

"Margaret you look absolutely beautiful. I do _so_ hope I can find a dress as lovely as yours for my wedding!" Fanny stood behind Margaret, studying her in the full length mirror in the blue bedroom.

"I'm sure you shall. I've seen the swatches you are selecting from and I am certain you will find something amazing." Margaret twirled to look at the beaded back. She did look pretty damn fine, if she did say so herself!

Mr. Bell had surprised her Thursday morning with this dress as part of her wedding gift. Margaret had begun to wonder if the man was gay. His taste in clothing was impeccable, every dress he'd chosen for her had fit perfectly and been lovely. He'd never married, although he'd asked her, and was very secretive about his personal life. She shrugged to herself. It didn't really matter, one way or the other, she was just lucky to have him for a friend, and a man to walk her down the aisle.

The dress was a dream. Ice blue silk with pearl beading in a floral pattern throughout the whole of the skirt. The bodice was tight, with lace overlay, and the sleeves belled at the ends, allowing for even more lace to flow from the undersleeves. It was a lovely ensemble, and perfect for one of the most important days of her life. In under an hour she would become Mrs. John Thornton, mistress of Marlborough Mill. She smiled in the mirror and twirled again.

"Margaret you mustn't spin around so!" Fanny scolded. "You will mess your hair and Jane did such a lovely job on it, getting all those matching beads intertwined."

"Oh Fanny, I can't help it!" She giggled. "I am so excited!"

"Will your arm be well enough without the sling?" Fanny asked with a smile.

"It will have to be," Margaret stated. "I'll not wear that thing on my wedding day!"

They laughed together and then Fanny continued. "Are you all packed for your trip?" Using the mirror, Fanny adjusted the collar on her own dress. "I would think there would be somewhere more romantic for a holiday trip. Brighton or Scarborough are fine places. France would be so lovely this time of year!"

"Oxford will be perfect." Margaret smiled at her soon-to-be sister-in-law. "I'll be able to show John my world and close my lodgings and settle what I must."

"Sounds rather boring, Margaret, but I suppose you'll have more opportunities for holidays in the future." Fanny leaned forward and gave her a tight hug. "You'll help me the day Watson and I wed, will you not?" She pulled away and smoothed the lace at Margaret's collar. "I've asked Ann to be my witness, but perhaps you can help with mother or the flowers or something?"

"Yes, I would be pleased to do so." Margaret nodded. She was glad not to be a bridesmaid. "Have you decided on a date yet?"

"Yes." Fanny messed with her hair, twirled a lose tendril around her finger. "May the first."

A brisk knock on the door startled Margaret. "Come in," she called.

Hannah Thornton walked with elegant grace into the room, smiling at both of the girls. Today she wore a lovely silk dress in a dark shade of rose. She looked beautiful and Margaret said so.

"My only son will marry only once," she said. Hannah glanced at her daughter. "Mr. Bell has arrived and is waiting downstairs for us. Fanny will you leave us for a few minutes?"

"Yes, of course. I'll make sure the carriage is ready. We won't want to keep the nervous groom waiting!" Fanny laughed and walked through the door, closing it behind her.

"Is he nervous?" Margaret asked Hannah with her own nervous chuckle.

Her stomach was tied in knots, but as confident as John was, Margaret found it odd that he would be nervous. They'd deliberately been kept apart that morning to avoid superstitious bad luck. Margaret was served breakfast in bed by Jane before the maid helped her with her bath, dressing and special hair style for the day.

"He is nervous, yes, but not in an anxious, worried sort of way." Hannah took her hand. "I believe he is simply very pleased you've agreed to marry him this day."

"I share the same emotions, I'm afraid. I never considered marriage before meeting John." She wrapped her good arm around Hannah, giving the older woman a hug. "I promise you, Hannah, I will do all I can to make him the happiest of men. I will give you grandchildren and support all his interests and work." She pulled away. "I will try to be a good daughter to you as well, but please know, I do love your son with my whole heart."

"I believe you, Margaret. I have never seen him as content as he is now. I believe he loves you as well." She smiled gently. "You have been given a great gift- the both of you. Love is rare in marriages. Not every day will be filled with sunshine. You will have good and bad times, but I believe you are both strong enough to muster through everything together."

"Thank you."

"I've come to give you something and ask you about something." She moved to sit by the unlit fireplace.

"That sounds rather ominous." Margaret gingerly sat on the facing chair, worried about wrinkling her dress before the ceremony.

"Here is what I wish for you to carry today, if it pleases you?" Hannah handed her a lovely lace-edged handkerchief. A large, fancy T was embroidered in the middle of the folded square, a J on one side and an M on the other, all done with a blue thread that matched her dress today perfectly.

"When I saw the dress you were to wear, I knew I had to embroider your initials in that color." Hannah shrugged.

"It's perfect, Hannah. Simply beautiful. Thank you." She squeezed Hannah's hand before placing it in the sleeve of her dress. New and blue were now taken care of. Something borrowed and something old still had to be found. Her lips twitched.

"John tells me that your mother passed away many years ago." Hannah cleared her throat, clearly shifting to what she wanted to ask Margaret about. "While I am certain you understand where babies come from, I thought I should ask if you have any questions about the marriage bed."

Margaret flushed, remembering just how well they'd done together so far. "I believe John will be able to guide me through it. I understand the basic workings of the… union."

"I don't believe he's had many experiences with woman, in fact you may well be his first." She looked down at her hands in her lap, clearly uncomfortable with the subject matter. "The mill has always been his wife, if you will. That was his main concern always."

"Yes, I believe you are right," Margaret agreed. "There will be changes, I'm sure, but I do know how important the mill, and you and Fanny are to him. I will respect that as much as I can, and try not to be too selfish with his time, although that might be a challenge for a bit. I'm always happiest when I'm near him."

"Well, that's all I can hope for." She reached again for Margaret's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Please know you may always come to me with any needs or concerns. I truly hope we can become friends, Margaret." Hannah patted her legs with the palms of her hands and then stood up.

Margaret nodded, caught off- guard by the woman's considerate and unexpected offer.

"We best get you to the church, Miss Bryce, so you can become Mrs. John Thornton."

Across town, John paced nervously at the back of the church. He kept looking out the window, waiting for his carriage to pull up carrying his mother, sister, Mr. Bell and Maggie.

"John, you will have to replace the flooring if you continue on so," Watson clapped him on the back of his shoulder.

"I'll remind you of that in a few weeks when you take on Fanny."

John frowned. He couldn't understand why he was so worried she wouldn't come. She had promised him she would marry him that day, and he was certain she was a woman of her word. He looked down at his pocket watch. She wasn't even late yet.

"Are you worried about anything?" Watson asked. "You've not known her very long. Have you any doubts?"

"None whatsoever," John answered quickly, honestly. "Not a single one.

"Good," Watson pushed the curtain at the window back in place and turned with smile toward John, "because, John Thornton, your bride has arrived."

Three hours later, Margaret glanced down, admiring the gleaming golden wedding band on her left hand. He'd picked out a matching pair, the one he now wore was twice as thick as hers, but equally shiny. John was staring at her when she looked to her side, toward him as they rode in silence in the Thornton carriage to the train station.

He reached over, a besotted look upon his face, and took her hand and placed a quick kiss on its back. Mr. Bell was situated across from them conspicuously buried behind a newspaper. John leaned over and whispered in her ear. "I love you, Mrs. Thornton." He then kissed the area under her earlobe.

They'd eaten a catered luncheon with the assembled group of mill masters and family and friends that attended their brief, intimate wedding ceremony. Bessie Higgins had come, with her father Nicholas at her side. Margaret was shocked to see how poorly Bessie looked. It had only been three days since she'd last visited with her friend, but those days must have been rough for Bessie.

Hesitantly, she'd introduced Nicholas to her new husband. John already knew him as a rabble rouser, but Margaret's gentle pressure on his large hand prevented any negative comments on this special day.

She'd whispered to John that he should hire Nicholas at the mill. He was well qualified, and wouldn't it be better to keep his enemies closer? John had given her a look she couldn't quite describe, except she had a feeling that although he was surprised with her suggestion, he might just consider it. Perhaps while in Oxford she would prod him a bit more. Bessie needed medical care and without employment Nicholas could not afford it. Plus, he hadn't been the one to shoot at them. That had been Boucher. Margaret was fairly certain Nicholas was a pacifist, and he certainly would not have wanted to see her hurt. Bessie even said so when Margaret had visited earlier that week at the mill house.

"You are woolgathering, my love," John teased.

She snapped back to attention and shot him a sad, wan smile "Just thinking about poor Bessie."

"She did look poorly," Adam inserted.

"Do you think, that is… I wonder if we have her condition in the future when I'm from." Margaret furrowed her eyebrows in consternation. "Like, has it been eradicated yet or do people still suffer from fluff on the lungs?"

"I don't know." Adam frowned and shook his head. "I imagine your Dr. Bell can direct you to someone that might have a medication to help her?"

"Why are you both called Bell?" John asked suddenly. "Do all travelers come equipped with that surname?"

"No." Adam shook his grey head. "Obviously Margaret is a Bryce. But because your J. Whitman is a Bell, and I am a Bell, you might understand that those with that surname have certain… abilities and skills… that enable us to assist people in the movement between times."

Margaret wondered again what those special abilities might be. How was it she had travelled effortlessly from 2014 to 1851? It was still rather amazing John believed her fantastical story, was even willing to go on the adventure back to 2014 with her.

"You'll help me go forward in time with Margaret?" John asked.

"I will." He bobbed his head curtly. "You'll stay in my home in Oxford this evening and if all goes well, sometime overnight you will be transferred to 2014 Oxford, to Miss Br- oh my, pardon me. _Mrs. Margaret Thornton's_ flat." He smiled at his faux pas, and then winked at John as if it hadn't been an error.

And so, once they arrived at Mr. Bell's home in Oxford, John and Margaret shared a quiet evening meal with Adam. They laughed at Bell's stories of his time in the future. He had a way with words, his descriptions were vivid and colorful and it helped prepare John for what he would see the following day. It made her a little homesick.

She frowned into her wine glass. Would she want to come back here after being back home?

"Well, Mr. and Mrs. Thornton." That drew her attention. "I believe we have some plans to make?" Adam stood from the dining table and rubbed his hands together with a smile.

_Mrs. Thornton._ She loved that title, wondered how long it would take her to get used to it. She smiled up at the tall, distinguished man, and then stood too. John pulled out her chair and soon the three were going into the drawing room to continue their conversation.

"Adam, will you be able to arrange for the transport tonight?" she asked, walking next to him.

She was nervous about presenting her paper, nervous to return to 2014 after these several months away. What if something drastic had occurred in that world? Maybe her roommate Bethany and boyfriend Tim were engaged finally? Maybe world war three had started, Lord knows the conditions were ripe for it when she left.

"I planned to, yes. I daresay the sooner you get back to your time, the sooner you can be back here." Adam shrugged. "Surely John cannot be away from the mill very long."

"Five days is our planned holiday," John said.

Margaret sat on the settee in the middle of the drawing room and John quickly joined her. He took her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Will that be enough time Margaret, to show your _husband _your time?"

She smiled first at John and then to Adam. "I'm just glad he can go with me." She glanced at John and then to Adam. "I was afraid if I left I might not be able to return to him, that I might somehow get stuck somewhere I didn't wish to be."

"Rest assured, my dear, I will get you both to 2014, and I will look forward with great anticipation to the conversation we share upon your return."

Margaret smiled and settled back against the settee, pleased to listen to the discussion between the two men. They'd known each other far longer than she had, shared several common acquaintances. Talk invariably turned toward the economy, the effect of the strike on the cotton mills and other industry in Milton.

"Never fear, Mr. Bell, Marlborough Mills will remain your tenant for years to come." John smiled at Margaret.

"I have no doubt, Thornton. I believe you are well situated and have planned for all contingencies." Adam crossed his legs and then folded his hands in his lap.

"I couldn't possibly predict everything, but I am confident my employees will be cared for no matter what." He squeezed Margaret's hand. "Now I shall have to prepare for a family as well." He smiled broadly, and she flushed at the innuendo. She trusted Adam, but this was a bit too much information to share with an outsider.

The conversation turned again, this time toward the politics of America, the changes progressing across the pond. Margaret was pleased John despised the practice of slavery as much as she did, even though it provided inexpensive raw materials for his business. He and Adam discussed options for alternative markets for both raw materials and finished good. By the end of the conversation, Margaret felt like she understood John's business even more.

"Mr. Bell, I think my _wife _and I must retire for the evening. I must admit I am anxiously anticipating our travels."

Margaret blushed again. She was anticipating far more than their travels back to her time.

"Margaret do go on ahead," Adam said. "I wish to share a few words with John before you depart."

"Very well." She stood and smiled at them both.

"Be well, my dear." Adam patted her shoulder. "Enjoy your holiday."

"Thank you." She smiled broadly. "Good night, Adam. We'll see you when we return."

She left the room, shooting John a wink and silently wondering what the two men needed to discuss without her. She'd been shown to her bedchamber earlier, when they first arrived, before dinner, and she followed the hallway back to the room at the end of the second floor stairs to wait for John.

She shut the bedroom door behind herself, holding her arm as if it were still in its sling. It hurt tonight. She'd probably done a little too much activity with it the past few days. Adam had only one maid, and Margaret wasn't willing to have the woman see to her needs that evening. She would have to wait for John- her _husband_- to help her prepare for bed.

While she waited, she made sure she had her pouch with all her research papers ready to type them into a document on her laptop. Surely it wouldn't take more than an hour for her to do that, and then she and John could visit J. Whitman, and she could give John a tour of her world. There was so much to see, so much to show him!

She could hardly wait!


End file.
